


Predator and Prey

by Tindomerelhloni



Series: The Jungle Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AGAIN BAMF HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH SEX OR SEXUAL POSITIONS, Angst, Anxiety, Any comments regarding "X is so dominant or so submissive" will be deleted, BAMF HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH SEX OR SEXUAL POSITIONS, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Emotions, I am not writing either of them as a top or bottom, I tagged "Graphic Displays of Torture" but torture is only TALKED about, Imprisonment, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Recovery, Slash, Smut, Therapy, This series is complete, Will update tags as I think of what I've missed, nothing overly bad happens, please do not upload my work to any other site, to clear up confusion: this story DOES have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: John is in the hands of an old army comrade, West, who has lost touch with reality. Sherlock is fighting the clock and his anxiety to find John and bring him home safe before West decides that John is better off dead.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Jungle Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933387
Comments: 60
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey, it's Tindo with notes again! Of course, it is, Tindo loves her notes.
> 
> I'm wondering if any of you would be interested in owning this series as physical books? If so if you could fill this form out, that will give me an idea!  
> Form: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1c_bw8gDkEADfnYMamYKnYfyahBnTy4Vx9vR6SkMFxm4/edit?usp=drivesdk
> 
> For now, my readers will see that this story has a "?" for chapters. That's because I'm not quite done writing/editing the ending. I got to where I had originally planned to end things, but the story still had more to say. I aim to wrap things up in the next week or so and have it done before Christmas. There will either be 7 or 8 Chapters! 
> 
> Also, if you wanna come hang out with me, come find me on discord, I have a server that I set up for a Johnlock Christmas Advent but it isn't getting much use, feel free to join and if we get enough people I'll make some channels and add in some bots. There we can discuss the books and other whatnot. 
> 
> Discord: https://discord.gg/Kz7BGQ6RbG
> 
> You'll see I have a few tags regarding "top/bottom"
> 
> I've been getting comments about "BAMF MEANS SEX" (which it doesn't) or "Ohhh Sherlock is bossy so please write him dominating John" then they go on to express every little detail they want me to write. I don't wish to sound rude, but those comments are not welcome here. I purposely haven't tagged either of them as a top or bottom, as that's not how any relationship works. (Unless you're super into BDSM then of course that's part of your daily life) A normal relationship is about what you and your partner both want and need at any given moment. So if one day John wants to penetrate, or BE penetrated, then that's something a healthy couple would discuss. 
> 
> Thank you, everyone, who read this far! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a silly goose. I entirely forgot to thank the lovely BRNZ for all her hard work betaing and bouncing ideas around with me. This happened because of you ❤️

**Time since John went missing: One hour thirty minutes.**   
**Thursday Night: 1900**

It had only been seconds since Sherlock had invaded his personal space and barked the order to be told everything. In that short span he’d considered giving his brother a watered down version of events. The temptation to tell his brother everything was being taken care of was and that he would personally oversee John’s safe return was strong. But Mycroft found he couldn’t lie to Sherlock, not to his face. It was one thing to ask John Watson to lie about Irene’s death to stave off a black mood. But another entirely to blatantly promise something he wasn’t sure was possible. 

His very being weary from worry, Mycroft wanted nothing more than to sit down before being forced to watch his brother come undone as he laid the events of the past week out. He started towards John’s chair, knowing Sherlock’s chair was largely off limits. He hadn’t even taken two steps when a deep snarl filled the silent static in the air. He looked over to his brother, and reconsidered his opinion that Sherlock would crumble. Sherlock stood with his shoulders squared, his back arched, a look of pure determination written over his face. That look was replaced for a split second with a flash of anger. Sherlock looked fierce and unyielding as he lowered the weighted blanket to the floor and glared at his brother. Mycroft raised one eyebrow in a silent “Where, then?” 

“Here.” Boiling with rage he Stalked over stalking over to the desk and grabbed a wooden chair, the one John would sit in while he typed up his blog. He slammed it down on the rug a good distance away from John’s chair. He hoped the message was clear enough.  _ You fucked up, Mycroft Bloody Holmes. You could call the Queen's own bodyguards to come to your aid, yet my John is missing. You sit there, and don’t even think of touching John’s armchair.  _

Feeling the anger and resentment radiating off of his brother Mycroft sat, slightly inclining his head to his younger brother. He understood that neither armchair was an option, Sherlock was making it very clear that his only purpose for being inside his and John’s flat was for answers. Sitting down in the rickety chair, he kept his back straight and his chin up. He wanted to portray that he was willing to, as they say, meet Sherlock halfway. To help, but while maintaining control of the situation and helping in the way he saw fit. Not to be ordered about by his emotional baby brother who could crack from the pressure at any moment.

Over the course of the next thirty minutes, he explained the situation to Sherlock and dutifully answered all questions posed to him. He went over the list of items he’d given John the previous day, the mobile hidden away upstairs, which hadn't seemed to surprise Sherlock, and how he and John had planned to draw West out in a controlled environment. 

Once his story was complete, he waited for Sherlock’s shell to break, for the cracks in his walls to deepen. However, Sherlock remained steadfast, his head held high as he took in the situation. There  _ were  _ lines of stress on his brother’s face. Sherlock was not void of emotion, but only time would tell if those walls would shatter, or if Sherlock could hold himself together long enough to be of use in finding John. For now, he was best held at an arm’s length, to avoid any repercussions of the inevitable breakdown.

Sherlock heaved in a deep breath then rose from John’s armchair with the exhale. With an exaggerated step, he stepped over the weighted blanket on the floor. In that motion Mycroft saw the little boy, relentlessly teased for having taken a teddy bear to the aquarium, toss the bear aside as soon as they got home. The bear has sat where he’d tossed it for months until Mummy had rescued it from the floor and placed it on a shelf for safe keeping. 

Sherlock steepled his fingers under this nose he began to pace, processing the information much the same way he’d processed John’s strange behaviour. Though, he only slipped halfway into his mind palace, allowing himself just enough awareness of the room around him to still be able to question Mycroft and avoid bumping into things. 

“The camera, has it been recovered?”

Mycroft pulled his mobile out of his pocket and scanned through the messages he’d missed while bringing Sherlock up to speed. 

“My team has just arrived on sight at the station,” he reported, lowering the device but not putting it away.

“And we’re certain West is unhinged?” Sherlock spun on his heels, watching Mycroft’s face as his question was answered.

“As certain as we can be.” Mycroft gave a half hearted shrug before adding, “there are no medical records regarding his mental health, and the single report regarding the collapse of The Jungle, is something even I cannot get my hands on.”

“Have the police been informed?” Sherlock nearly scoffed as he asked, he knew the answer before Mycroft even opened his mouth. Of course the government wouldn’t alert the police, why would they. 

“Sherlock, why would we…” Mycroft was cut off by another snarl, this one more feral than the last. 

“Because that’s what you do, when people go missing, Mycroft. You alert the bloody MET.” While speaking Sherlock had crossed over the length of the room, and come to stand just in front of Mycroft. He’d leaned down and Sherlock was so close to his face that he could feel spittle splatter across his forehead. 

“I have my best men working on his recovery as we speak.” Mycroft pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, dabbed at his face but kept a tight lid on his composure. Sherlock was showing enough emotion for the both of them.

“Best men?” Sherlock stood up and a harsh laugh filled the room. He loomed over his brother’s sitting form, and he used every inch of his height to make his frustration known, “The same men who were supposed to protect him? The same men who  _ should _ have intercepted West before he had a chance to get anywhere near my Fiance?” Leaning down again, this time a bit further so their faces were at the same level, Sherlock gritted out between his teeth, “Forgive me,  _ brother, _ if I don’t trust your men. Now get out, and don’t contact me unless you have something useful to give me.”

Once Sherlock had stepped away from the space directly in front of him, Mycroft stood, took one last look at his brother. Then with a small shake of his head he gathered his umbrella from where he’d placed it beside the door, and left. 

Sherlock watched from the window as Mycroft climbed into the back of a black sedan, then as the car pulled away he sucked in a steadying breath. He fiddled with his mobile for a moment, but wasn’t ready to face the disappointment of another call to John going unanswered. So, gathering what composure he could, he called the only person he trusted to get John back alive. The Detective Inspector picked up on the second ring, indicating he wasn’t currently on a case.  _ Good, that’s good. I’ll need his undivided attention.  _

**_“Sherlock, everything alright?”_ ** _ D.I. Lestrade sounded concerned. _

**“Greg, I need your help.”** Fighting to keep his voice calm, Sherlock closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, pulling on a few locks just to the point of pain.

**_“Shit…”_ ** Sherlock had spent the past ten years pretending he didn’t know Lestrade’s first name. Hearing it now, sent chills down Lestrade’s spine.

**“John is missing, and I don’t trust my brother to bring him home. Not alive, at any rate.”**

**_“Right, I’ll gather the team. Meet at the Yard, or…”_ **

**“Baker Street, we’ll set up shop here.”**

Sherlock didn’t wait for Lestrade to ring off, he simply lowered his mobile from his ear. His eyes caught sight of the ring on his right hand, he placed the mobile down, then with his left thumb and index finger rolled the ring around his finger. He watched as the honeycomb design disappeared around his finger, then reappeared. 

“Come home, John… this ring was never supposed to stay on this hand.”

“What’s that dear?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice came from behind him. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard her come up the stairs. His heart sank deep within his stomach as he turned around and faced Mrs. Hudson.

“Mrs. Hudson…” he said, voice barely a whisper. “John is missing…”

  
  


***

  
  


**Time since John went missing:Two Hours** **  
** **Thursday Night: 1930**

John shifted into a state of semi-consciousness. He lay there with his eyes shut and groaned the ache from stiff muscles reached his awareness. His first thought upon reaching full consciousness was,  _ Oh…. fuck me…  _ He couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d fallen asleep or how long he’d been out.

He took inventory of himself and found he was lying flat on his back on top of something hard and oddly cold. It reminded him of the metal table he’d had in Afghanistan, where he’d take a kip between working on injured men.. Every fiber of his being ached and protested the firm surface. He wanted a soft bed, or even a rug.

Every muscle from his toes to his neck felt as if they had been stretched to their breaking point then released. Wanting to shake the stiffness out of his body he tried to get up but found his body strangely unresponsive. His inability to concentrate was not helped by a migraine that would have put any of his hangovers from Uni to shame. 

_ Were Sherlock and I out drinking?  _ John dismissed that thought nearly as soon as he had it, Sherlock wasn’t exactly one to drink out. He’d have a glass of wine or scotch at home, but his tastes were expensive, and he scoffed at having to pay inflated rates at bars or restaurants. Not only that, Sherlock wasn’t exactly up for the general public, on a good day, let alone throwing himself into a pub full of loud drunks

_ Greg, then? Did Greg and I go out?  _ He dismissed that thought as well. He’d only agreed to meet up with Greg once since Sherlock jumped, and that night had ended poorly. It had ended with Greg tucking one very drunk and sobbing mess of a man formerly known as John Watson into bed. Greg had stopped asking, after that. Which John had been thankful for. 

His head ached, in lieu of water or pain relievers he tried to press the heel of his palm against his forehead.All he managed, however, was a brief twitch his index finger. The first warning bells began to go off in the back of his head and he pushed the migraine to the side. He couldn’t move, that was a little more worrisome than a mere headache. He needed to figure out where he was, and why he was there.  _ What’s the last thing you remember? Hell if I know…  _

Growing increasingly frustrated both with his lack of knowledge, and the simple fact that his body refused to respond to even basic commands John let out a soft whimper. He hated feeling helpless, every moment of his training when he’d joined the army had proven that any sign of weakness could get you killed. But still, he ached for a small ray of comfort, a soft hand, a warm blanket, or even a glass of water. Distress welled up inside him as he lay there vulnerable and unable to move. 

_ That’s your first course of action. Regain movement. _

He began focusing on his muscles, starting with his forearms. He tensed the muscles, pleased that he could make them do that much, held the tension to the count of ten, then released. He repeated that with each section of his body, working from arms to shoulders, his pecs to abdomen, and all the way down to his toes. He found his legs the least responsive, but after a few tries he managed to get his calves to obey.

Once done with that exercise he allowed himself to take in his situation, and to think through what he could remember. The last thing he remembered was saying goodbye to Sherlock before leaving for work. The way Sherlock’s lips felt against his, soft and full. The scent of his shampoo, it’s odd mix of watermelon, lavender, rose, and almond. Fruity but somehow without seeming too feminine, not that Sherlock would have cared about something as trivial as that. 

_ Get your head out of the gutter, Watson… _ John chided himself, tearing his thoughts from Sherlock and forcing himself to remember what came after that kiss. He’d gone to work, his first shift back since Mycroft had pulled him into his office that fateful day. He remembered being full of trepidation, and not just your typical return to work jitters. Something had been bothering him, but he couldn’t remember what.

_Had Sherlock and I been fighting?_ _No, not with a kiss like that. If Sherlock was upset with me, he would have glared at me and given me the silent treatment._ John blew out a frustrated breath through his nose and tried to press forward to what came next.

_ Did I go out after work and have a drink by myself? Did I have too many? Did some poor PC collect me and throw me in a drunk tank for the night?  _ He considered the hard bunk beneath him. It felt right, considering what he’d seen on telly. But something with that scenario was off. 

_ It’s too quiet. _

If he really were in custody, sleeping off a binge, wouldn’t there be people in a similar plight in the cells next to him? Certainly, the walls weren’t so thick that he wouldn’t be able to hear the sounds of drunks arguing, pleading to be let out, or even the occasional drunkard vomiting. 

_ There must be some sort of clue in my surroundings. Come on, get up. Movement is key, you already know that. _

Once again he willed his body to obey. Starting this time with the simple task of getting his eyes opened. If he could look around, and take in his surroundings, that could help him piece out more of the puzzle. But try as he might, all he managed was a brief flutter before something sweet and heavy began tugging at his mind. He thought for a moment about how easy it would be just to stop fighting and go back to sleep. There would be time to figure this all out later, after a good nap. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept so soundly without gasping awake due to a nightmare. Not since before Afghanistan.  _ Ohh… _ Something clicked in John’s brain, and suddenly that cloying desire to fall asleep felt dangerous.

_ Oh fuck it all, you’ve been drugged, Watson. Sluggish, can’t move, can’t even open your eyes. Last time you felt like this was waking up in recovery after having been shot. I swear to god if Sherlock drugged me, I’m going to kick his arse. Even if it is a nice one.  _

“Sherlock,” he said, or tried to say but his tongue refused to do more than twitch aimlessly against his teeth.   
  
John wasn’t sure how long it took before he managed to get a single part of his body to move. But finally, after attempting to lift his head he managed to get his neck to respon. Though not exactly as he had planned. His head, which had been upright, flopped to one side and his left cheek made contact with the hard surface beneath him. His skin broke into gooseflesh at the feeling. His eyes darted open on their own accord, but any feeling of triumph he had at that victory vanished when his vision was met with nothing but pitch black. 

_ Where the fuck are we, Sherlock… you know I don’t find this funny.  _ With an effort John rolled his head to the other side, hoping to see something, even just a speck of light, but he was again met with solid blackness. Panic began to well up inside him at that point, the warning bells rising in volume. Sherlock might drug him, yes, but he’d never left John alone in a strange place afterward. The three times Sherlock had drugged him, he’d woken up at home. 

Twice on the sofa, and once upstairs in his own room. There had always been a glass of water placed somewhere, the coffee table or his nightstand. But never alone and in a dark room. Their flat, even when the power went out, had never been  _ this _ dark before. Not when they had the fireplace to light or a candle. Not to mention that the scents greeting him now were nothing like the familiar ones of home. A low terror filled moan pulsated throughout the room, and it took him a moment to realize he was the source of the sound.

Panicking wouldn’t solve him anything, so he squashed down the lump in his throat and began taking in measured breaths. He focused on gaining some control over his emotions again while he waited for his body to respond. This wasn’t Sherlock’s doing, and he needed to get up and see if Sherlock was here with him.

_ Had Sherlock met me after work? Did we go out on a case? Did something go wrong? Oh god, what if he’s already awake. He’ll be a mess, thinking he’s back in Serbia. Christ…  _ John had to force himself to stop that line of thought right there. He continued to focus on his breathing. He took eleven slow breaths, then five fast ones. If Sherlock were nearby he would be no good to him if they were both in a state of emotional crisis. He came back to the problem of getting up and moving. To be of any use to Sherlock, he’d need to be on his feet.

John began focusing on his arms, urging them to snap out of their stupor and work. Either enough time had gone by, or the thought of Sherlock alone in a place similar to his increased his willpower. After two failed attempts, he managed to his left forearm pressed firmly against the floor. Then swinging his right arm over his torso he placed it palm down on the floor beside his left, and with considerable effort pushed himself up until he was on his hands and knees. 

“Sherlock?” Finally managing to get his tongue to do more than flop about, he whispered out his Fiance’s name. If they had been on a case, and something had happened, it could be crucial to remain silent. It wouldn’t be the first time one, or both, of them, had been kidnapped in an attempt to thwart Sherlock’s powers of deduction. He listened hard for an answer as he rocked his body back and forth, trying to work the stiffness out. 

He counted to one hundred, giving Sherlock ample time to respond. But the only sounds that met his ears was the constant drip of water nearby. Judging by the musty damp scent surrounding him, John assumed the water was somewhere near.

“Sherlock, luv? He called out, a little louder this time, repeating the count. Still no one replied. He didn’t even hear the sounds of anyone, man or creature, moving about. Just the constant  _ drip, drip, drip. _

_ Jesus… What the fuck happened?  _

His body still not able to do much more than rock, he knelt there on hands and knees and tried not to panic. The warning bells that had gone off earlier were now at max volume and fear made his blood run cold. He processed and dismissed dozens of scenarios that could lead to him waking up alone, and in this physical state. 

If his head had simply been bashed in, there wouldn’t have been much need to drug him. And drugged he most certainly was. John could still feel the sweet pull of the concoction urging him to curl up and go back to sleep. Whatever he’d been given, was working hard to disorient him. John fought through the mental fog as best he could, and forced himself to remember what happened  _ after _ work, why he’d been stressed when he’d left the flat.

His mind, like his body, refused to cooperate. He just kept going back to the kiss, to the sensation of holding Sherlock in his arms. His parting words echoing in mind.  _ “I love you, so much. Just remember that, yeah?” Why did I say that? Why did I feel the need to tell him to remember that? He knows I love him. Think, Watson!  _

John slammed a fist down on the surface below him out of frustration. He then sucked in a pained breath as something rough bit into the meatier part of his palm. The pain, minor as it was, helped ground him. And for the first time he thought to use his hands to explore the floor, to figure out what he’d been laying on. John ran his uninjured hand against the rough ground, his fingers picking out groves in the floor. As he investigated around him, he realized they were seams, that the floor was made up of rough stones. When he’d slammed his hand down he’d probably cut himself with a small piece of rubble. 

_ Where the hell am I? Dripping water, stone floor, alone. I remember leaving work… texting Sherlock. I was going to pick up dinner. I was waiting for the tube when… Ooohhhh fuck….  _

John bent forward and pressed his forehead against the stones as it all came rushing back to him. He remembered the station, standing on the platform. The feeling of a gun being pressed against his back… He remembered West. His first feeling wasn’t fear, or panic. But relief. Sherlock was safe, then. This wasn’t a case gone incredibly wrong. This was revenge, pure and simple. The warning bells dimmed, though didn’t fade, and sat in the back of his mind, pulsing with his migraine. 

_ I need to get up, to get out of here, or prepare for his return. Certainly, West wouldn’t just dump me, and wait for me to starve to death. He’d get no enjoyment out of that. He’ll return, and when he does I can’t be a moaning lump on the floor.  _

Try as he might, his legs still refused to hold the weight of his body unaided. So, he shuffled forwards on hands and knees, his injured palm aching dully with each press against a stone. But it took him less than 30 seconds before his fingertips brushed against the base of a wall. 

_ Use the wall, Watson… Get on your feet.  _ John spoke to himself in the voice he’d perfected while a Captain in the RAMC. He’d needed to give orders quickly, sharply, and precisely. His men knew he wasn’t being short with them, but when Captain Watson spoke like that, there was a job to do. Today, John was a soldier, and a soldier he would remain until West was taken care of and his freedom secured. 

John struggled to catch his breath, the simple act of standing had taken far more out of him than it should have. Especially in his fit condition. Doing physio with Sherlock every day had helped maintain the muscle he’d managed to put on in the month of training before Serbia. 

Strength slowly returned to him, and his legs grew less shaky under his weight. Soon John was able to stop focusing solely on the act of staying upright. There was still no light, not even a crack of light in the wall, which felt like bricks under his hands. The constant dripping sound, and the smell of damp, was the only information his senses could pick up.

He turned his focus to his body, running a hand over himself, remembering the tools Mycroft had equipped him with. The tools he hadn’t been fast enough to use. He was still wearing the maroon shirt, that much was made evident when his fingers found the sharp collar tabs. He took a moment, pressing his fingers underneath the collar, feeling to see if he’d accidentally stabbed himself with them. Feeling nothing, he returned his focus to the rest of his kit.    
  
His shoes were still there, and John was sorely tempted to fish out the small torch and inspect his surroundings. But he knew he needed to wait West could, and would, return at any moment. If he were caught with a source of light, West would certainly search him and find most, if not all of his hidden instruments. No, he would wait until after West showed his face, before taking anything out of its hiding place.

John held his breath as he checked for the most important piece of equipment, his belt. His fingers found the cool metal buckle, and a measure of tension washed away upon contact. This he did open, risking revealment. He  _ needed _ to know if the syringe was still there. Without the syringe, his escape would need to be well planned, and timed perfectly. Much to his relief, when he opened the compartment and carefully felt inside, his fingers found the small cylinder. 

_ One small victory for me, one colossal mistake for West. Time to explore. _

Keeping one hand on the wall, John followed it’s length to the left. He let his hand explore the surface, feeling for anything that could be a door or boarded up window. He kept one hand in front of him, feeling for any obstacles before he ran into them. He found the corner, where two walls met and continued his search. Counting the corners he did one full circuit without feeling anything like a door. He had found the source of dripping water. He’d found a damp section on the third wall, next to the second to the last corner. He didn't know much about buildings or architecture, but he assumed that to be an outside wall. Supposing it more likely to get exposed to water than an inner wall. 

Counting from corner to corner, knowing he couldn’t judge where on a wall he was otherwise, he measured the length of each wall in steps. It was crude and imperfect, but it gave him an idea of how big, or small as it turned out, a space he was trapped in. Each wall measured exactly four steps. Doing some quick math, knowing roughly how many steps it took him to go a kilometer, he judged the room no bigger than six feet by six feet, roughly the size of a walk-in closet, he assumed. 

_ Just enough room to wrestle a panther in… _ John thought, settling his back against the nearest wall and sinking to his bum. He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapped both arms around them, and rested his aching head on his knees. There was nothing left for him to do, except wait. Perhaps his headache would go away during the interval. 

***

  
A sound caught West’s attention, he looked up from his book and focused on the sounds of the building around him. For a few moments he heard nothing but silence, then, just as he was about to continue reading, a soft moan reached his ears. The hidden room where he’d stashed Watson an hour before was directly to the right of his cot. In fact, his cot sat with one side pressed against the shared wall. Propping himself up on one arm he pressed his ear against the bricks and listened to the faint noises coming from within.

“He’s awake!” Whispering excitedly he turned to look at Enyo, who was propped up on a chair beside his cot. He held a finger up to his lips, asking for silence, then rubbed his hands together as a thrill of excitement coursed through him. As he listened to the faint sounds he let his mind wander back over this catch. Watson had to admit, he’d done it admirably. 

_ It had taken him nearly an hour to get John from the station to his bolt-hole. He’d driven around aimlessly for a short while to ensure no one was following then took the scenic route to the river. Not having had a chance to thoroughly pat him down for a second mobile, or tracking device, West had taken the precaution of switching on a signal jammer during their ride.  _

_ When West had pulled up outside the warehouse and looked in the back of the van, John had just begun to stir. That of course wouldn't do. He still had to get Watson through the maze in the warehouse, and into the hidden room within the vault. Then ditch the van, though for that he was just going to drive it into the Thames and watch it sink. He’d do that after nightfall, for now it was hidden in a small alley between two nearby warehouses.  _

_ So he’d given Watson another shot of tranquilizer, waited for him to stop struggling, then set to work. The back entrance was the shortest, though his least favorite as anyone on the river had a full view of the door. You never knew, nowadays, who would have security cameras on their boats. Once he’d ensured Watson was in fact out for the second time, West went to the back door, propped it open then backtracked to the van where he scooped Watson up into a fireman's carry.  _

_ As he rounded the corner of the warehouse just to their left, he paused just long enough to glance up and down the river, making certain no one was drifting past. Once a single boat had gone out of view he adjusted Watson’s weight and made a beeline towards the waiting door. _

_ Once inside the vault, he tossed Watson’s body to the floor, taking a small amount of pleasure at the way his head bounced off the stone floor. Knowing he needed to shut the back door, he only admired the sight for a moment before going to secure his fortress. As he stepped back into the vault, shutting that door behind him, he looked over at Enyo and grinned. He’d done it, gotten Watson off the streets before The Lion, or whoever Watson was working with, had time to intervene.  _

_ “Isn’t he pretty like that? Oh, his head will hurt later. Maybe he’ll have a nice bruise as well. What do you think, Enyo? Should I have a bit of fun, or toss him in the other room?” _

_ West squatted down beside Watson’s body, looking from Enyo to his prize. He ran his finger along Watson’s vein, wondering how much blood would spill out if he cut the skin. He pulled a knife out of his pocket and ran the tip over Watson’s neck, not hard enough to cut, but just enough so the steel made a slight indent directly under the tip. He wanted to cut Watson, to watch him bleed… but he wanted him awake for that.  _

_ “More fun listening to him scream. I can play with the blood after.”  _

_ Before tossing the blade aside he rolled Watson onto his stomach and off cut the tape away from his wrists and ankles. Enyo would make certain that Watson wouldn’t fight back once he was awake. One mention of taking her to Baker Street would put his ex companion into a more compliant mood. The glint of his candle light against something shiny caught his attention just as he was about to grab Waston by the wrist and drag him into the hidden room. Picking up Watson’s right hand he inspected the source.. It was a simple silver ring, though clearly expensive and West wanted it. _ __

_ He worked it off Watson’s finger, and held it up to the light for a better inspection. It was beautiful, and the celtic knot engraved on the outside of the band had been carved into it with an expert hand.  _

_ “You never were the one for jewelry or trinkets… you won't mind if I have this, will you, old chap?” Watson didn’t answer, so he slid it onto the pinky of his left hand. _

_ Giggling softly to himself, West opened the secret door, propped it open with a heavy bucket, then dragged John inside the room.  _

That had been an hour ago. Watson would be out of it for another twenty or thirty minutes, as the doses of back to back tranquilizer worked its way out of his system. Without water, it would metabolize slower. He picked his book back up, keeping one ear close to the wall, and continued reading. He wanted Watson fully awake before they had their little chat.

  
  


***

  
  


**Time since John went missing: Six Hours** **  
** **Thursday Night: 2330**

“Excuse me,” Sholto pushed out of the boisterous room and shut himself in the ensuite bathroom. He needed to get away from the noise, from the constant clacking of fingers on keyboards from partial snippets of phone conversations. But most of all he had to get away from the tension and the way everyone kept looking up at him for guidance. As if by some miracle he could get them out of the mess he’d created.

He leaned against the door as he shut it behind him, trying to quiet the barrage of thoughts and emotions swirling around him. His heart, he was sure, was attempting to beat it’s way out of his chest. 

_ Where is he? _ That thought was first and foremost in his mind, it was the catalyst for his anxiety. West had disappeared more than a day ago. And now, according to an inside source in the Met, a man fitting Watson’s description was missing. Had been missing for six hours. In those six hours, the team of men he’d had trying to track West had been split into two teams. One to continue the search for West, and one to learn anything they could about Watson’s wearabouts. “Find Watson, find West.” was the thought echoing throughout everyone as they worked.

_ What have I done? Why did I enlist West after his last display?  _ Locking the door, he pushed himself shakily forward through the narrow room until he had both hands braced on either side of the sink. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, to see his own face in the mirror. He knew what he’d find there, aside from the reflection of a half scarred face. There was no removing the horror he felt over the situation  _ he _ caused from casting dark shadows across his features. 

_ I went against our own rule… _ Major James Sholto shook from head to toe as panic soared through his veins.  _ Never move against your own men. Never make it personal.  _ He gripped the counter tighter, his knuckles going white as a wave of lightheadedness nearly brought him to his knees.

That was the first rule, in organizations like The Jungle. If there was a problem in house, you dealt with it, but not with force. If force was necessary, you outsourced and allowed someone else, who was emotionally and personally uninvolved to handle it. 

Watson had always been the most stable, within their organization. He’d been the voice of reason, Sholto’s confidant when he needed an ear or shoulder to lean on. He had a strong moral compass, and despite their work leaning far past “gray area” and deep into “murky” territory, Watson had been able to rationalize their missions.

_ How could I do this? Why didn’t I stop and think? I could have requested a meeting, he and I could have talked. After everything he did for me, he deserved at least the chance to explain himself. _

The full weight of his actions settled around Sholto. It wasn’t a comforting weight, rather one that pressed in on him and made him feel like the very air was trying to suffocate him. The walls of the tiny loo felt as if they were closing in on him. 

_ I need air. God, I need air.  _   
  
Having forgotten he locked the door, he fought with the handle a moment, panic rising as he tried to exit the small bathroom. In his panic, it took him nearly half a minute to remember the lock, disengage it, and step out of the way of the door as he swung it open.

“Boss?” Someone called out.  _ Just another lackey, incapable of independent thoughts. _ Sholto blocked out the question, grabbed his jacket and a room key. He caught Elanor’s eye as he pushed past her, giving her a small shake of the head to wordlessly warn her off from following him.

Staggering into the hallway, Sholto let the door close behind him and ran a hand through his thinning hair. The silence in the hallway helped, but the walls still felt like they were closing in.

_ I need to get out of here. I need to make this right. _ He knew why he felt the way he did, why the room felt like it was collapsing in on him. Why the questions were just too much to bear. This was  _ his _ fault. It had been his decisions that had led them here. His choice, to murder a friend rather than talk to him face to face. His choice to hire a man, who on the best of days was borderline psychotic, and on the worst the makings of a serial killer, to do the deed. 

By the time he made it to the lift, he knew what he needed to do. He needed to go to Mycroft Holmes, explain his actions, and offer to help make things right. And he needed to do that now, rather than later, while there was  _ some _ hope that Watson was still alive. 

***

**Time since John went missing: Six Hours thirty-five minutes** **  
** **Friday Morning: 0005**

_ Before, when Mrs. Hudson had overheard the end of his phone conversation with Lestrade Sherlock hadn’t been able to find the strength to say anything further. He wanted the comfort of John’s chair, but something deep inside him was aching for human contact. Instead he sat on the sofa. She had followed, taking one of his hands in both of hers in a tight grip. Though they appeared frail, they were strong and kind and helped ground him as his world began to tilt sideways. _

_ Sherlock had pulled away from her comfort only once. He’d gone upstairs to John’s old room, rummaged about until he’d found the safe within the textbook. Unable to crack the safe he’d brought the whole thing downstairs, dropped it onto the table with a loud thud that had made Mrs. Hudson squeak, and smashed it open with some tools. Unable to crack the code on the mobile hidden inside the safe, he sent his brother a text requesting access to which Mycroft sent an email with the passcode and pictures of West and Sholto.  _

_ He went back to the sofa, his small burst of energy now depleted. They sat in silence until flashing blue lights on the street below announced Lestrade’s arrival. Wordlessly she’d risen and gone down to meet the D.I. herself. Sherlock was certain Lestrade was being threatened by the good lady of the house to not upset him. Following Lestrade up a moment later she had come back to his side, taken his hand while Lestrade pulled up a wooden chair as Sherlock told his story.  _

_ “You haven’t looked yet?” Greg had asked, nodding towards the mobile. _

_ “No. Be my guest,” Sherlock said, his voice flat and for once his need for knowledge and data was completely uninterested in knowing what was on the device. Lestrade stood, entered the code into the mobile than a moment later let out a low whistle. With that Lestrade had excused himself, and stepped out into the hall to make a call. Within another hour a hand picked team had arrived, had taken over his and John’s sanctuary, and efforts to find his fiance were underway. _

_ Later, when Lestrade’s team of five arrived, their arms full of equipment, she’d pointed the way up. Then had followed a few minutes after them with a tray of tea and nibbles. Before she’d left, dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes, she’d turned on Sherlock and glared, not unkindly, at him while she announced she was ordering everyone pizza from a late night shop to help keep the midnight oil burning. The message was clear enough and Sherlock was too tired to argue. She would bring food, and he would eat, there would be no arguing.  _

_ Mrs. Hudson didn't simply sit back when there was a crisis. But she knew the proper men were on the job. The least she could do was keep them fed, and make sure Sherlock himself ate at least enough to keep his body going. It was something John would do, and it made Sherlock’s heart ache in his absence.  _   
  
Now the lounge was a flurry of activity and noise despite the late hour. Or was it early? Sherlock wasn’t sure anymore. So much had happened since Angelo had called, yet so little had been done about it. It was infuriating. On one hand, Sherlock wanted to shout at everyone to get out, to leave him alone with this grief. While on the other he wanted to shout and tell them to work faster, harder, more efficiently, to find John. But a little voice in the back of his head kept nagging at him.  _ Aren’t you the one the police go to, when they’re out of their depths? _ Sherlock squashed the voice down and did his best to ignore the other men.

Sherlock sat in his chair, shocked that he wasn’t panicking over the ruckus. Lestrade sat across from him, waiting for him to tell his story for the second time. This time it was being recorded for official use. While Sherlock found it tedious, he understood the importance of getting his side of the story down on record. At the very least it meant if more personnel were required, he personally wouldn’t have to tell the horrible story himself. So he plugged along, answering questions, and giving what information he could.

He paused in his recollection, taking in the worry lines on Lestrade’s face. The way his hand gripped tightly to the armrest, his knuckles white, mirroring the rage Sherlock himself felt. Where Mycroft had not been welcome, Lestrade was. Sherlock could have sat in John’s chair in turn making Lestrade sit in the chair he usually frequented. But this was nice. It was nice having a steady and familiar presence in John’s chair when John himself couldn’t be there.

“Right, so John is… what? A badass? But those jumpers…” Lestrade ran a hand through his silvery hair and sat back with a low whistle of appreciation. Not having mentioned his and John’s reunion in Serbia the first time for the sake of Mrs. Hudson, he’d told it now. Under other circumstances, the look of awe on Lestrade’s face would have been amusing. “God, Sherlock, he killed how many?”

“More than you should know about, this recording goes to  _ no one _ outside of this team.” Sherlock retorted though there was no heat in his voice. He’d simply needed to give Lestrade the facts, and it had occurred to him the more up to speed Greg was, the faster they could all solve this. 

“And you think it’s someone from his old team… the…” Lestrade trailed off, referring to his notes for a moment, “The Jungle, who has him now.”

“Yes, Pierce West. Dishonorably discharged, though Mycroft cannot get any records on the event that caused that.” Sherlock was certain of that, especially after Lestrade had coaxed him into reading the email exchange between John and Mycroft on the secret mobile.    
  
“Right… So we,” whatever Lestrade had been about to say was cut off when Sherlock held up a hand as his mobile dinged.    
  
“Text, from Mycroft. They’ve found the camera John had attached to his cardigan.” Unable to keep his hands from shaking Sherlock placed his mobile down on the armrest of his chair and closed his eyes as he processed the information. If John had been clever, and John was more clever than your average human, the footage on that camera could be paramount to finding him.    
  
“I’m going to need that footage, and you tell your brother I need it unaltered.” Lestrade stood, pointed to the youngest officer, Branson, who was busy setting up a mobile base of action. “Oi, Branson, I have an errand for you…”  _ Nothing like meeting Mycroft Holmes for a little bit of light hazing. And in the middle of the night when he’s sure to be tired and miserable. Poor sod. _

“Also…” Sherlock’s voice began to tremor and it took on an angry edge that Lestrade had never heard before, “Sholto is there, Mycroft said he turned himself in ten minutes ago. I’m going with Branson.”

“Like hell you are, Branson nevermind, you stay here, finish setting up. Sherlock and I will be back later. Save us some pizza, I’m going to make this man eat when we get back. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Lestrade and Sherlock stood in unison. The D.I. watched as his friend wavered on his feet then with a deep inhalation he closed his eyes and steadied himself. He caught Lestrade watching and a faint tinge of pink grew over his cheeks. The last time he’d shown that much unsteadiness around Lestrade had been during a sobriety test that had landed him in rehab.   
  


“It’s alright, mate,” Lestrade said softly, “You’ve just had a shock of a lifetime, after what sounds like months of hell. You’re allowed to feel uneasy. It’s normal, and I think most of us are aware you are actually human.”

“When we get John back, I’ll show you just how human I can be.” Sherlock replied, but gave Greg a slight nod of thanks. Not that he needed his feelings validated. But, in the end, it was nice to know that Greg was there for support, in more ways than one.    
  
“Let’s go terrorize your brother.” Greg handed him his jacket and he shrugged into the familiar comfort and buttoned it tight around him.    
  
“I want to terrorize Major James Sholto, you can have my brother.” Sherlock replied over his shoulder as he descended the staircase. “I need answers, and Sholto  _ will _ give them to me.

_ Or else I’ll kill the bastard in front of everyone, _ he thought, but didn’t add out loud as he climbed into the passenger seat of Lestrade’s unmarked police car.  _ If John is dead, there’s no point in living anyways, at least I’ll get a moment of revenge before I get shot down.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opens up to Greg and finds a friend when he needs it the most.

**Time since John went missing: Seven hours twenty minutes.** **  
** **Friday Morning: 0050**

“Fucker!” Lestrade swore and kicked at the front tire of his car with enough force his shinbone vibrated. The blow did nothing to alleviate his frustration, so he repeated it in hope of a different emotional outcome. Running a hand through his hair he straightened his rumpled jacket then slid into the car. He didn’t start the engine right away, instead, he placed both hands on the wheel and exhaled slowly, his breath fogging up the windscreen. 

“We’re going to allow that?” he asked, without looking over at Sherlock. He wasn’t sure he could meet his hollow-eyed expression again.

“Aside from breaking into a government building, in front of one of Her Majesty's officers, what other choice do I have?” Sherlock slumped back against the seat. He sounded defeated and exhausted, the events of the evening were finally beginning to take their toll on him. 

“We got what we came for though,” Greg said, trying to focus on the one positive thing, the envelope in Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock curled a hand protectively over it, then nodded slightly. 

“We got  _ part  _ of what we wanted,” corrected Sherlock, wearily reaching to his side for the seatbelt. “We got a copy of the video, I never got to punch Sholto,” his hand paused mid-air, the buckle retracted as his hand shook with exhaustion.  _ John is missing, and all I want to do is cry and sleep. Will I be able to help him? For all I know seeing him in this video will ruin me. _   
  
Wanting to get home, he snapped out of his stupor and buckled himself in. The agent Mycroft had sent to meet them was still standing, arms folded behind his back, guarding the entrance. Barring entrance, he’d related a message from Mycroft.  _ “We’re not accepting visitors at this time. Please call again at a more appropriate hour.”  _   
  
“Fucker…” Sherlock snarled, mirroring Lestrade’s earlier curse. 

“I’ve never heard you swear,” Lestrade noted as he finally started the car. “You’re more articulate than that.”   
  
“Yes, well. My fiance has gone missing, my brother is a nob, and I’m exhausted. John went and got me used to sleeping every night… now my body requires it if I want to function. So forgive me if I can’t think of a better way to describe my arsehole of a brother and his precious little agents right now.” Sherlock raised his hands into the air and used air quotes around the word precious before slumping back against the seat and closing his eyes.

“Right, well. Back to Baker Street then. I’ll have my guys go over the footage while you catch a few hours of shut-eye.” 

Sherlock scoffed at that and Lestrade inwardly sighed. He resigned himself to his dual roles. Not only was he the D.I. in charge of finding a missing person, he also needed to make sure Sherlock took care of himself. Mrs. Hudson would feed them, but without John around, it would be up to him to make sure Sherlock didn’t push himself past the limitations of his own body. Sleep was necessary for both of them.    
  
“Listen, Sherlock,” Lestrade broke the silence halfway back to the flat, “My eyes feel like someone replaced them both with handfuls of sand. It is… one in the morning. Can I kip on John’s old bed? We can both sleep for a few hours while my guys go over the footage. There will be a lot for them to weed through. Let them do their job, then you can take a look at it in a few hours. Yeah?”   
  
“I don’t want to sleep,” came the grumpy reply but there was no fight in the words and a moment later Greg felt some of the tension in the air dissipate as Sherlock yielded. “I need it though, I’ll have to keep myself sharp if I’m to be of any use to John. I can spare three hours, and you’ll have to move some boxes off the bed upstairs.”

***

**Time since John went missing: Eleven hours thirty minutes.** **  
** **Friday Morning: 0500**

“Boss?” Greg woke to the sound of Sally Donovan’s voice, “Boss, wake up.” 

“What time is it?” He asked, forcing himself to sit up, no matter how badly he wanted to pull the blanket back down around his head and fall back to sleep. Sally’s presence meant he was on a case, which meant there was little time for sleeping. Disoriented, it took him a moment of looking around the room to remember where he was.  _ That’s right… Baker Street. I’m in John’s old room. John’s missing. _

“Just after five in the morning. I’m here with Team Zebra to relieve Team Gazelle. Branson wanted me to let you know he’s nearly done going over the footage.” Greg could tell by her perplexed expression that she desperately wanted to ask how John had gotten a spy camera, and why he was wearing it. Professional she was, she kept her questions to herself. “I’ve brought you some clothes,” she nodded to a bag on the floor beside the door, “and coffee.”

“Right…” Greg sat up and gratefully took the coffee. He took a long sip of the sadly lukewarm coffee and asked, “is Sherlock awake?”

“Not yet. Didn’t know he slept, thought he was just in his room sulking because I was here,” Sally stepped back and crossed her arms under her chest.

“Well, it seems John’s been a good influence on him. You listened to his report, I take it?” Greg rubbed the sleep from his eyes then swung his feet over the edge of the narrow bed. “I can’t have him going off the rails on this one. We need him, John needs him. He went through hell and back to get here, let’s not make it worse.” He gave her a short warning look, hoping the severity of the look wasn’t diminished by the bags under his eyes. The last time Sally and Sherlock had worked together had ended with Sherlock throwing himself off a building.

“Yeah,” She nodded, catching his expression before rolling her eyes and throwing her hands up in surrender. “I’ll be nice.” 

“Good.” Greg gave Sally a grateful nod then around a jaw-cracking yawn said, “Let me change, then I’ll go wake Sherlock…”

“Better you than me,” she called over her shoulder, headed back downstairs. “I’ll get the rest of Team Zebra briefed while you deal with him.”

Five minutes later Greg, now dressed in a slightly crumpled charcoal gray suit, walked into the semi-darkness of Sherlock’s bedroom. Instead of finding Sherlock sitting up in bed, typing furiously away on a laptop trying to single handedly solve the case, the room was silent. Peaceful, almost. Faint snores reached Greg’s ears, indicating Sherlock was actually asleep. Sherlock was curled on his side, his bare back facing the door, cradling a pillow in his arms. The pillow was covered in a plain white t-shirt. And it only took him a moment to realize the shirt must belong to John.    
  
Seeing Sherlock curled up against a substitute for his partner would have been heartbreaking alone. But adding to the picture of misery, was Sherlock’s physical appearance. The light from the hall behind him fell across the span of Sherlock’s back and it made Greg suck in a breath through his teeth. Sherlock had said he’d been mistreated while away, but never in Greg’s wildest dreams had he considered torture to that extent. 

The state of Sherlock’s back was beyond something Greg could find words for. Even in the dim light he could see angry lines of scar tissue. Thankful for dim light, and that Sherlock was asleep and not watching his initial reaction to the marks. He knew he’d not have been able to hide his visceral horror at what the scars represented.

Originally he’d planned on shaking Sherlock gently awake. But now, seeing Sherlock’s back, and the way his body was curled in on itself to protect his vital organs, (and no stranger to PTSD himself) Greg knew touching Sherlock while asleep would be unwise.

  
Opting to make as much noise as possible in advance warning, he switched on the light, shut the door with a solid click, and tread heavily on the wooden floor. Sherlock’s breathing changed tempo, but he didn't move. Greg cleared his throat a bit louder than needed, then spoke loud enough to wake but not startle

“Sherlock, mate?” He kept his voice low and friendly and moved around the room. When his foot found a creaky floorboard, the noise of dry wood stretching made Sherlock huff out a low breath and one of his legs shifted under the blankets. Putting both feet on the board Greg shifted his weight from foot to foot while he continued speaking.

“Sherlock, we’ve let you sleep an extra hour. Come on, mate, time to get up. We’ll get some caffeine in you and you can go over the footage from John’s camera.” This time Sherlock stirred, his eyes fluttering open for a split second before shutting tight against the light. Greg sighed, and shifted his weight again. After a moment a low groan filled the room, pulling Greg’s eyes back to the bed, and the man within. 

“John… No word?” Sherlock said around a yawn then curled tighter around the pillow in his arms. He either hadn’t realized his back was exposed, or he didn’t much care if Greg saw.

“No, no word. But Branson has finished going over the footage, he’s separated the boring stuff from the important. He said he’s cleaned up the audio as well.” Worrying that Sherlock would be upset about his back being exposed Greg looked around the room for something for Sherlock to put on. He spotted Sherlock’s blue dressing gown hanging behind the bedroom door, and plucked it off the hook. “Wanted you to have a look before his shift ends.”

In the brighter light, Sherlock’s back was a patchwork of terror. Marks of varying shades of reds and purples, some straight, some circular and some jagged lay across nearly every inch of skin. He’d seen worse, but never on someone still alive to tell the tale. And this was on a man he considered to be a friend, which made the horrors somehow worse. “Jesus Christ” he whispered.   
  
“Oh, that,” he reached down and grasped at the blanket from around his hips. Tugging it most of the way up his back he exhaled and admitted, “I… under exaggerated my story yesterday, it being on record and all.” 

“Yes, that. Christ, Sherlock… you made it sound like they slapped you around a few times. Not… fucking torture. I’ve seen corpses with less trauma.” Greg’s knees felt weak and his stomach rolled, the coffee he’d just consumed threatening to make a comeback. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Sherlock laughed harshly into the pillow. It muffled the sound but didn’t diminish the raw emotion in Sherlock’s voice.

“Pretty? Not the word I would use.” Greg replied in a quiet voice. “More like terrifying. It’s a fucking miracle you’re here.”

“I’ve got more…” Sherlock was surprised at himself, at how open he was being. He hadn’t even let Mycroft see his back, but something deep inside him wanted Greg to know. He needed someone, a friend, to understand what he’d gone through in order to protect those he cared about. John knew, even Mrs. Hudson, to an extent, was aware. 

Now it was time for Greg to understand all that he’d been through. Perhaps it was because Greg had been one of the three he’d been trying to save from Moriarty’s snipers. _ Or perhaps I’m finally allowing myself to see him as a friend.  _ Sherlock winced slightly as he forced his stiff body to move. Rolling over into his back, he let the blanket slide down his torso, baring his chest to the harsh overhead light. 

While not as  _ decorated _ as his back, more scars were etched across Sherlock’s chest. Greg found he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. As he inspected the marks, including the angry red bullet wound on Sherlock’s left shoulder and he let out a gasp.

“Who the fuck shot you.” Anger made his knees go weak, weaker than they already were at the sight of his friend. Sitting on the closest corner of Sherlock’s bed he grabbed at a section of duvet, balling his fist in the plush blanket. It wasn’t as satisfying as wringing the next of the human who had laid hands on Sherlock, but there was little else he could do.    
  
“No idea. John’s just mad he didn’t get to shoot him back.” Sherlock shrugged, then sat up slowly, taking care not to put too much weight on his left shoulder.” Sherlock sighed and looked over, meeting Greg’s eyes for the first time. He saw the anger, the hurt, the same desire to hurt whoever hurt him that he saw within John. He saw an ally and a friend, and he also saw the dressing gown in Greg’s arms. Feeling exposed, and knowing Greg had been given enough time to see the extent of his injuries, he held a hand out for it. Then, making a decision he thought John would be proud of, he began to explain why he’d done what he had. 

“It was necessary… I had a choice to make, two years ago. Die to save you, Mrs. Husdon and John. Or live in a world without you three. I’ve explained to John,” he said as he carefully placed his left arm through the sleeve of his dressing gown, “Moriarty had snipers aimed at you, him, and Mrs. Hudson. If I hadn’t jumped, if I hadn’t  _ killed _ myself, you three would be dead. I am nothing without you, my support network. I’m just an arrogant man who gets bored and needs to solve puzzles.”

Tying the dressing gown loosely around him, he looked up and smiled sadly at Greg.

“You taught me to solve puzzles that helped others, helped me get off drugs. John taught me how to care, how to be a little more human. Mrs. Hudson taught me that home is where you’re loved and the happiest. Nothing against my parents, they’re lovely people, they just appreciated learning over friends and affection when I was a child.” Sherlock lifted his right shoulder up in a half shrug then folded his hands over his lap. 

“A world without you three is a world I couldn’t live in. I thought I was doing the right thing. One life instead of three, after Moriarty took my other options from me. Mycroft and I had plans, but what we hadn’t considered was that Moriarty would take his own life, leaving a contingency plan behind that if I didn’t follow him in death, you three would die.” 

“Sherlock, why didn’t Mycroft say something? Why…” Greg began, but Sherlock stopped him with a shake of his head.

“There were other players on the field. Others who were part of his network, who posed a threat to all of you if anyone caught wind I was alive. I’m afraid I believed you would all recover, you’d grieve and move on. I… miscalculated.”

“John was a wreck, Sherlock… a hollow shell. He had all but stopped eating months after your funeral. It’s a bloody miracle he didn’t kill himself.” Greg said, his words carried a tinge of roughness around the edges making his voice gravely. He wasn’t angry, but Sherlock needed to know what he’d done, how his death had affected those he loved. It wouldn’t help bring John home, but open conversations with Sherlock were far and few between. “I took leave for three months, did you know that?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and he shook his head slowly. Mycroft had given him updates about John in the beginning. But those had stopped three months into his mission after his brother deemed the information was damaging Sherlock’s concentration. Never once, however, had any of the updates included word on Mrs. Hudson or Greg. 

“I got away… Said I needed a holiday. I went to bloody Switzerland and sat in a ski lodge for a fucking month. Just… drank. No one there knew me, no one cared about who I was. Some nights I drank until I couldn’t stand up anymore, then let the staff carry me to bed. I tried to check in on John, but he was so deep in his grief I don’t even think he knew I was there.” Greg placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee through the blanket and patted it gently. 

“I’m not telling you this to make you feel like shit. But to let you know that we all go through dark periods. But then we have to pull ourselves up, even if it’s just a farce, and face reality. I had to go back to work, John had to keep living. I’m sorry to say I didn't check on Mrs. Hudson… but she’s still here, right? You obviously went through hell and back, but right now I need  _ you _ , I need your mind. More importantly, John needs you.”

“Greg… I get panic attacks. Bad ones.” Figuring while all cards were on the table, now would be the best time to inform Greg of his  _ condition. _ Noticing his hands were shaking he busied himself by rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying to tame his bed head.

“I wake up screaming in the middle of the night from the horrors I’ve seen on the job. Neither of us are perfect, Sherlock.” Greg said kindly, and if he had noticed the way Sherlock was trembling, he didn’t say anything.

“What if I panic while trying to find John? What if I break down in front of everyone.” Sherlock asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice. At that moment Greg thought he sounded like a small child. As he watched Sherlock tug at his wayward curls he saw a flash of the young man he’d once known. A man so far gone into his addiction that on their first encounter he’d been lying in a pile of his own sick, surrounded by needles and unused pills.    
  
“Then, they might just learn that you are human after all. Not a robot.” Smiling softly he patted Sherlock's knee before standing up and adding, “And while I’m not John, I’ll be here for you. Whatever you need, I’m here for you. You’ve made it this far, just keep going a little longer, yeah?”

_ Branson was anxious to go home and get some sleep so Sally offered to go check on when Sherlock would be ready to view the footage. She’d been about to knock when she’d heard voices.  _

_ “Not… fucking torture. I’ve seen corpses with less trauma.” Greg was saying. Holding her breath she listened on. She’d seen most of the bodies Greg had seen. Most were horrific, and if Greg was talking to Sherlock like that she wanted to know why.  _

_ She listened with growing dread as their conversation unfolded. Sherlock’s voice was soft and almost boyish, and while she missed some words she was able to catch the gist of what he was saying. For years she’d been holding a grudge against the man, for years she’d been angry that Greg had invested so much time into the young addict, into a man they both knew would never join the force. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ She knew why she hated Sherlock, why she hated the time her boss spent on him. She was jealous. Jealous that Greg saw something in him that he didn’t see in her. She was a fine cop, they both knew that, but she’d never have the mind of Sherlock Holmes. So she’d turned her jealousy into bitter hatred, and had looked for opportunities to make him feel unwelcome. But as she listened to him tell his story, she felt that jealousy and hatred slip away. What she heard through the door was a man, desperate to fit in and be accepted. And one of the only people who accepted him for him, was missing.  _

A knock on the door prevented Sherlock from replying, but he gave Greg a thankful nod as he pulled himself out of bed and adjusted his dressing gown. Greg opened the door, and Sally’s voice reached his ears. 

“Branson is asking if you’re ready? He’s keen to go home.”

“Be right out, thanks, Donovan,” Greg replied, turning to see if Sherlock was ready. He looked tired, and while he didn’t hold himself up as straight as was typical for him, he gave Greg a curt nod. Eager to dive into the work, eager to bring John home.

“Coffee? Tea? I need caffeine, is there any?” Sherlock asked as he stepped up behind the D.I. He placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder, squeezing it gently in silent thanks. Greg met Sherlock’s eyes and gave him a single nod of understanding.

“I’ll put the kettle on.” Greg offered as they followed Sally down the hall towards the lounge. He’d already had coffee, but at this hour, and on so little sleep, there was no such thing as too much caffeine. “You get started with Branson.”

***   


  
Sherlock watched the video from start to finish six times without saying a word. Everyone in the room, Sally included, was watching  _ him _ and not the video. Sherlock felt the weight of their gaze on his shoulders. At first he was worried that it would be too much, that having all eyes on him would cause him to panic or slip up. However, he found it familiar and a small comfort. Embracing the familiarity he was able to settle in and focus on the screen in front of him.

The room waited for Sherlock to speak, to deliver a string of analytical deductions. The air was so thick with silence that Sherlock could hear the beating of his own heart reverberating in his ears. He lost himself in the rhythmic beating for a time, as he processed the image of John’s capture, from John’s own point of view no less. He tried to imagine the expression on John’s face as he’d turned around on the platform to face West. Or the way John’s eyes would have flashed over the platform weighing the options of the other occupance’s life versus his own.    


_Of course, John would allow himself to be taken, he values the lives of others far above his own. West knew that and used it against him. Knowing an approach in a public place would be most effective, he needed to get to John at the station, regardless of the promised hours of safety. Did John expect that? If so… why did he insist on going to work?_ Sherlock ran through their last moments together before John had left for work, and dismissed part of his theory, _No, he expected to come home. He wouldn’t have planned for dinner and a confession if he had been expecting this, though part of him knew it was a possibility, considering his arsenal of gadgets he brought with him. But does any of that help get John back? No… focus on the video…_   
  
Inwardly kicking himself for getting sidetracked he focused back on the video. Dragging the slider through the timeline until he got to the part where John pushed through the exit and into the alleyway. Not for the first time, the van caught his attention, though while watching it previously he’d been too focused on the conversation to pay much attention to a vehicle. He watched as John purposely left the cardigan, and camera, against the wall where he’d managed to get most of the van inside the shot. Pausing the video on the van he pointed to the screen.

“John was clever, he knew the van was unique, and he made sure to get it in the shot for us. We’ll start there. We’ll need to trace both ends, where it came from, and where it went from here.” His voice wavered, but a brief nod from Greg helped ground him. Gathering his mug of tea in both hands he sat back and took in a deep breath before continuing, “We know John was fitted with a GPS tracker. We also know that the moment he got close to the van the signal disappeared. That tells me West had a jammer inside the van. He’ll most likely have a second jammer, or keep that one near John at all times.”   
  
“So we trace the van, find out where it went?” a voice asked, though Sherlock didn’t bother to register who’d asked.  _ Isn’t that what I just said?  _ Composing himself he nodded, then took a sip of tea to give himself something to do other than verbally thrashing the man for asking such an idiotic question. 

“Yes, we use CCTV to trace the van. But also, we should look for reports from emergency vehicles experiencing GPS outages or radio outages. That should help fill in the gaps where CCTV coverage isn’t available.” Sherlock felt ridiculously drained from the simple deduction and it was hard not to be disgusted with himself.  _ Two years ago I would have had all that and more on the first watch…  _   
  
“Brilliant,” Greg’s voice echoed John’s familiar sentiment. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the D.I. His heart ached, wanting so badly to hear John say that, not Greg, but the simple praise worked wonders on his feeble mind. A quick glance around the room told him that no one else had thought about checking emergency vehicles for reported outages.  _ I still possess some intellect… I just hope it is enough to bring John home. _

“Logic,” he replied, shaking off the emotion. Now was not the time to get emotional, he needed to think.  _ Why didn't’ John struggle once in the van?  _

Going back to the video he watched the painful footage of John getting a knee to the groin and being shoved inside the vehicle that would steal him away.    
  
“We know by the end of the video that John goes limp. We have roughly fifty seconds of footage of West moving around in the back of the van without John struggling. Safe to assume John was drugged… here.” Pausing the video, Sherlock pointed to the image of the two men. He tried hard not to focus on John’s unmoving form, but instead drew the attention to West. “See how he reaches up by the driver’s seat? He’s getting something. Safe to assume a hypodermic needle.”

“John is, or was, equipped with tools that could aid in his escape. We have to at least acknowledge the possibility that West found some of them, if not all of them.”  _ We also need to acknowledge the possibility that John’s body could be floating in the Thames by now. _ A voice said mockingly, and Sherlock struggled to push the thought aside. “John is a highly qualified military man with hostage training. He’ll do his best to stay alive, and will stay vigilant for a chance to escape. Find the van, find West, find John. At all costs we need West alive until John is safely in our hands.”    
  
As he spoke, he twisted his engagement ring around his ring finger. The smooth glide of metal against skin was comforting to him. He desperately wanted the weighted blanket but for now the feeling of his ring was enough of a foundation to stand on. The blanket would be there for him later, when there was less to do. 

“Right, Donovan, get people on the van.” Greg’s voice was authoritative, telling the room that it was go time. “I want to know the year it was manufactured, how many kilometers it’s been driven if it’s stolen when the last oil change was. Everything you can get on it, and for god’s sake find out where it went.”   
  
“On it boss.” She replied then surprised Sherlock by adding in a kind voice, “We’ll find him, Sherlock.”   
  
“Additionally, I’ll also need a dozen pictures of the van printed out, I’ll get my own network on the hunt,” Sherlock said after giving Donovan a puzzled look.  _ She’s being nice… why is she being nice? John would say it's because people care, but she didn’t care about me before. Why would she now? _

“Right, Branson, print them out then you can go home,” Greg ordered, then motioned for everyone to go back to work. Sherlock turned back to the video with the intent on watching it again to glean for any new information when Greg placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Mrs. Hudson has given me strict instructions to make you eat something, or so help her she’ll kick us out of the flat.” He held out a plate of reheated pizza and a second mug of tea. “Breakfast of champions, we call it back at the Yard, though we eat it cold.”    
  
Sherlock glanced from his now cold mug of tea to the steam billowing out of the cup now held in Greg’s hands. He moved his old cup aside, making room next to the laptop for the plate and hot tea in silent acceptance.

“I’ve also called your brother,” Greg added, watching as Sherlock’s hunched form stiffened at the mention of his brother. “We’re expected there at ten. So eat up, do something brilliant, then we might just get our chance at Sholto.” 

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as Greg placed the plate down beside him then patted his shoulder.  _ Do something brilliant? Like what?  _ A cold bitterness pumped through his veins and suddenly the thought of eating while John was missing made his stomach turn. He thought of ignoring the food, but a voice that sounded too much like John’s echoed through his thoughts  _ Mrs. Hudson doesn’t make idle threats. If you want to work in the comfort of your own home, eat something.  _

***

**Time since John went missing: Thirteen hours fifteen minutes  
** **Friday Morning: 0645**

_ I’m glad the bastard didn’t take my watch…  _ John thought as he hit the button that lit up the watch face. A dim blue light illuminated the hands on the clock, showing him it was nearly seven am. He did some quick maths, calculating the time since he was taken.  _ Thirteen hours… Has West been in to see me while I slept? Certainly, I would have heard him. Unless…  _

John shuddered as he considered, and not for the first time, that he was permanently sealed in. He’d tried not to think about the possibility that this tiny room not only served as a prison but doubled as a coffin. Letting the precious blue light on his watch flicker out, he scrubbed a hand over his face and massaged his temple. His head still pounded with a vicious ferocity. He knew he needed water to hydrate himself, and flush the remaining drugs out of his system before the migraine would go away. But, aside from drinking the water dripping down the wall, which could be tainted, there was little to be done about his bodily needs.

It had been hard to sleep through the pain, but he’d managed to doze off and on for a few hours. It had helped pass the time, and had kept the worry at bay that West would simply leave him to rot.

Picking himself up off the floor and sitting with his back against the wall John let his thoughts drift, hoping to distract himself from the stabbing pain behind his eyes. He thought about Sherlock and wondered if Mycroft was letting Sherlock help. Time ticked by, the constant  _ drip drip drip _ of the water on the wall brought to mind Sherlock’s fear of rain.  _ I get it, now… If I had to listen to that for a month… _ John shuddered at the thought.   
  
A faint noise, something like creaking metal reached John’s ears. He lifted his head up and turned towards the sound. Standing as quietly as he could he crossed over the narrow space and pressed his ear against the opposite wall. Through the cold stone he heard a sound that reminded him of men shifting in their army issued cots, then a sound that could only be a man grunting. 

“Morning, Enyo,” John could just make out the muffled voice, but it was clear enough that he knew it belonged to West. He would know that voice anywhere, having spent the better part of a year side by side with the man before he’d snapped and gone mental.“How’s our guest doing? Shall we check on him soon?” 

John’s heart skipped a beat at that.  _ Check on who? Me? Oh thank Christ, I might not be sealed in.  _ Relief and hope washed over him at the notion.  _ If I’m not sealed in, then there is a chance… Stay vigilant, Watson. _

“He’s probably quite bored in there,” added West. “If we’re lucky he’ll want to come out and play.”

_ Who is Enyo? Is it a code name? A pet?  _ John wondered, but whoever West had been talking to remained silent. The sounds through the wall changed from creaking metal to heavy boots against a hard surface. Not wanting to be caught with his ear pressed against the wall, he forced himself to return to the other side of the room and sit.

_ If there is a door, I can’t feel it. Watch where he enters the room. If only I had something to physically mark the location so I can find it in the dark…Maybe there’s a chunk of brick loose somewhere in here.  _   
  
Just as he was about to begin feeling the ground around him, a low grinding noise began to fill the tiny room, and after a second or two, a thin crack of light appeared in the wall. The line of light reached from floor to ceiling, and as the door was pushed inward, the light grew wider. When the gap in the wall was wide enough for John to stick his fist through, the stone wall stopped moving.

“Johhnnyyy…..” West’s voice drifted through the crack. Before John had time to contemplate answering, the barrel of a small handgun was shoved through the gap. John’s training kicked in instantly as he stepped to the side, away from the direct line of fire and decided it prudent to remain silent. If West wanted to play a game of cat and mouse, John would take a page from the mouse’s book and play the part of silent prey.    
  
“Oh, come on John. Do play, it’s so much more fun.” 

The end of the pistol giggled from side to side in a short jerky motion. For a moment John thought the motion intentional. That West was simply moving the gun around in an attempt to scare him. But as he watched the barrel of the gun began to droop down towards the floor, as if it were too heavy.  _ That’s not right.. Not for a man who’s used to guns far heavier than that.  _ He thought even as the hand holding the gun seemed to drift lower to the floor, as if being pulled down by a weight.

_ Side effect from his meds? Or from not taking them? Could be low blood sugar or some other medical condition.  _   
  
If West was physically compromised, that could work in his favour. But he needed proof before taking a large risk.  _ Start small. Say something, watch how the gun reacts. _

Despite knowing it could all be a feint, an act to get John to reveal his location, he took the chance. Clearing his throat he spoke in a gravelly voice from lack of water and not having spoken for the better part of a day, “No thanks, but I could use some water, and maybe bog roll.” 

Before he’d finished speaking, John was already moving. As he moved to the left he watched the gun for any signs of movement. It didn't track him, or swivel to the point where he’d just been, which gave him hope. It was hard to judge perfectly in the dark, but it appeared as if a whole section of the wall simply swung inwards. He was behind the door which was both good and bad. It meant that West would have to bend his arm around the door to point the gun directly at him. (And if he did that, John could break his wrist with ease.) But it also meant he couldn’t see through the gap and into the room beyond.

_ This position could prove useful. If I can get him to step inside, or extend his arm too far, I have the upper hand. He wouldn’t be able to see me, so I could slip behind him and surprise him. _

“How about some food while you're at it? Hmm? Maybe then I’ll feel more likely to chat.” John called out as he moved closer to the door. If he could get West inside the room, it could all be over now.

“Oh, you always did have a good sense of humor under pressure. I always admired that, you know.” An unhinged cackle filled the small room. It mixed with the desperation coursing through John’s body, leaving him shivering and considering the sanity of his old comrade. 

“Yeah? Well, that…” 

The sound of the door scraping open cut off whatever John had been about to say. He watched as the wall pivoted inwards, proving his hypothesis that the wall itself was the door. Not quite willing to give up hope that it could all end now, he placed his left hand over his belt buckle, ready to grab the syringe if West put any part of his body through the gap.

Instead of an arm or leg pressing in through the gap, a bucket was kicked inside John’s cell. Then, with the same low grinding noise, the door began to close. With one last cackle, West pulled the door shut, leaving John in complete darkness once more.

The stone snapped back into place with such finality that John found it hard not to scream in frustration. Instead, he opted to act. Leaning against the wall for balance he tore off his right shoe and fumbled in the darkness for the tab that would pull the inner sole up. Once he had the lining out, it took him less than five seconds to pull out the precious LED torch from its foam lining.    
  
He held the torch in his hand for a moment, heart beating rapidly at the thought of light. Then using his thumb and index finger on his right hand he depressed the center of the circular torch and breathed out a sigh as he got his first real look at his prison. The blue tinted light shone out in a cone as he swept it over the wall where the gap had just been. He walked towards the spot, the stones cold under his one barefoot, then leaned his back against where he assumed the door had been. 

Getting his first real look at the room holding him captive did little to ease the knot in John’s stomach. The room was four solid walls, no windows as he’d expected, and no other doors that he could see. In the light, the room felt much smaller than it had in the darkness. He judged that if he stood in the very center of the room and expanded his arms to either side, he’d be inches away from touching either wall. Also, the ceiling was low enough that even at his height he could reach up and touch the stone above him with little problem. 

“Lovely little place. Seems I’m not entirely alone…” John muttered softly to himself, not wanting to talk loud enough for West to hear, but desperate for something other than the drip-drip of water. He watched a spider scurried around the web it had built in one corner. His eyes drifted to the bucket, and while he was curious if anything was inside it, he needed to know more about the door to his back. 

Trying his best to remember how far along the wall the crack had been, he began inspecting the stone wall. Earlier when he’d simply been using touch to find a door, he hadn’t been able to find anything. But now with the aid of his light, he saw a fine line in the stones that reached from floor to ceiling. Knowing now that the door didn’t open quietly, and that he’d have some sort of warning should West decide to surprise him, he took his time inspecting the wall.

_ Aha. There you are. Clever…  _ John ran his finger along the seam in the wall.  _ Now, where is the other one? _ While trying to keep out of direct aim of the gun, noticing how wide the door had been hadn’t been a top priority. But knowing now what to look for it only took him a moment to find the other crack in the wall.

_ Found you…  _ John dragged the bucket over and placed it against the wall just beside where the door had opened. Having a visual aid for the opening, he placed his shoe by the other crack then stepped back. The door was just wider than his shoulders were. Assuming it was opened all the way, and the door was only a few inches thick, he wagered he’d have enough room to bodily shove his way out should the need arise.  _ Probably swings open on pins… Looks as if this whole section of wall moves.  _ Giving it a quick push he confirmed his suspicion that it only swung inwards.

Discovering all he possibly could about the door without knowing how it was built, or why it was built he glanced over at the bucket again. Picking up his shoe, he sat on the floor beside the bucket, placing the light between his teeth. While tying his shoe back on, he looked inside and nearly wept at the contents.

West had given him two bottles of water, a prepackaged sandwich that looked as if it had been picked up at a corner shop, and a single roll of toilet paper. It didn’t take him long to piece together the purpose of the bucket. While uncomfortable, it would serve as a better toilet than the floor.

_ Thank god… _ John whimpered, dropping the torch from between his teeth into the palm of his left hand. He let the light go out while he picked up the bottle of precious water. He pressed the cool liquid against his forehead for a brief moment, then pocketing the torch so he wouldn't lose it, twisted the cap open. The seal snapped open with a satisfying snap of plastic, the bottle popping beneath his fingertips.  _ Sealed shut, even better. Less chances of this water being drugged. _

He downed half the contents in one gulp. Then forced himself to take a handful of smaller sip. On his self allotted measure of water he swished the liquid around in his mouth. When his tongue no longer stuck to the inside of his mouth he swallowed and forced himself to put the rest aside. 

It was hard not to finish it in one go, but he wasn’t sure when West would provide him with more, and he was no stranger to rationing his provisions. Pulling the torch out from his pocket he inspected the sandwich, peeled off a portion of the wrapper and nibbled at the meal while inspecting his prison once more. 

He spotted the line of water dripping from the ceiling and walked over to it. Algae coated the wall where it came in, making him glad he hadn’t drunk any earlier. The water itself seemed to come from above but it didn’t seem to have affected the structural integrity of the wall or ceiling. His brain stuck on the fact that there were no windows, no doors, no vents. No visible openings other than the door West had pushed open. All in all, it was a stone box, with only one way in and one way out. 

_ Shit… do I have air circulation?  _ The new thought brought a wave of panic that made the sandwich turn to sawdust in his mouth. What if the only fresh air he got came in when West decided to open the door. How much air had come in during their brief encounter? How long would that air last? John began frantically looking around the room, the forgotten sandwich now held limply by his side. He walked the perimeter once, keeping the light low against the floor, but spotted nothing.  _ Wait… I saw a spider… they need air. Right?  _ This time with his light pointed up, he slowly began to circle the room for a second time.

He found the spider, and it’s web in one of the corners. Much to his relief, directly behind the web there was a small chunk of stone missing. It was a small gap, possibly only wide enough for three fingers, and wherever it led was also as dark as his cell. But the fact that the spider was alive told him he was getting some air flow. On top of whatever air he got when West had opened the door, he hoped it was enough. 

_ I won't suffocate to death. Probably…  _ John thought wryly, sucking on his teeth, and using his tongue to dislodge some bread from between his teeth. Appetite gone, he wrapped his sandwich back up and placed it next to his mostly depleted bottle of water. Sitting with his back against the door he leaned his head back and began to formulate a plan. _ If I can get him to open the door wide enough… I have a few options.  _

It was hard to let the light go out, but he didn’t know how long the battery would last. With one last look around the room, he let the light shine on the bottle of water and sandwich, as if to prove to himself that they were both there and real. With a heavy sigh he readied himself for darkness again, then let the light go out. He fiddled with the torch for a few moments, then deciding it was wise to place it in his pocket where he’d have less chances of dropping it in the darkness, he put it away. 

_ Option one: Hide behind the door. It swings in, probably on metal pins in the wall. The door will partially block me from his direct line of vision. He’ll have to step in, or lean in. From there I can strangle him, break an arm, or drug him. Honestly, anything would work, as long as he doesn’t shoot me first.  _

_ Option two: Stand directly across from the door. Throw something, say… this bottle of water at him. Hope he tries to catch it. Lunge forward, then the same as before. Try to strangle or drug him before getting shot.  _

_ Either way, my options suck, and are dependent on getting him to move in my favor. They also rely on him not getting bored and simply shooting me. Then there is the possibility he would should me just for the fun of it, and not to kill. I’d be less able to escape if I had a bullet lodged inside of me. Then there’s the risk of infection… Jesus… Sherlock…  _ John’s mind carried him to the dark days he’d spent in Afghanistan, delusional with fever as his body tried to fight off the infection ravaging its way through his shoulder.

Leaning his head against the damp stones. A slow ache settled over his heart as he wondered how Sherlock was handling the news.  _ Is Sherlock functioning right now, or is he a mess?  _

_ Jesus, Sherlock… I miss you so much.. I wish I was there to tell you how sorry I am. I should have told you…  _ Partially hydrated and with a satisfied stomach, John drifted off into a fitful sleep with his head pressed against the door. His dreams full of his fiance, and of escape. 

  
  


  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went roughly four and a half days without posting another chapter! My self control is.... waning. 
> 
> I haven't updated the chapter count yet, because I'm still working on the end bit. So far I have six completed chapters, I'm working on chapter 7 with a possibility of a short 8th chapter. We'll see how this plays out. Also, exciting news! The artist who did the art for Dear John, has agreed to make covers for the series! I cannot wait to see them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is everyone liking this third and final story so far? I hope you're enjoying it. (Feedback has been far and few between so far)
> 
> I'm up to 9 freaking chapters for this story! I'm doing my best to get it written, and my goal was by Christmas but I have a feeling it will be more like "new year" I failed to take into account how busy I will be over the next few days.
> 
> Also, I'm quite proud of Sherlock in this one, every chapter he does something that makes me go "Aw the baby detective is learning and growing. I love him!"

**Time since John went missing: Sixteen hours ten minutes  
** **Friday Morning: 0940**

**  
** **  
** “You’re early. I said ten o’clock.” With a weary sigh, Mycroft stepped aside from the door. Sherlock tried not to let his satisfaction show, Mycroft’s suit was wrinkled and a stain from last night’s dinner was still evident on his lapels. The skin under his eyes was dark and blotchy, indicating he’d been up most of the night.  _ If not all night… Good. Let him be miserable, this is his fault. _   
  
“Yet you were outside waiting for us. Clearly expecting us, so I say we’re right on time. Now, where is he?” Sherlock asked sharply as he brushed past Mycroft and entered the lobby. He reached the lift before Mycroft was able to reply. Impatience pulsed through him, as he waited for the answer that would determine if they were going up or down. “Your office, or the interrogation rooms?”

“My office, Sherlock… But before you speak to him…” Mycroft began in a threatening tone, but Sherlock cut him short with a roll of his eyes.    
  
“Spare me the threat, brother. I don’t aspire to physically harm him. I only intend to  _ talk _ to him,” Sherlock replied, calling the lift by pressing the down arrow. His skin crawled at the thought of being underground again. But he pushed the thought of his windowless cell aside. He couldn’t afford to give in to his own fears, not now, not for John’s sake. “You  _ will  _ let me speak with him.”

“Is that a question, or are you threatening me now?” Reaching his younger brother, Mycroft folded his hands over his chest and used his additional inch of height to his advantage. Any attempt to intimidate his brother, however, was met with steadfast resistance.  _ Perhaps I was wrong in my assessment. He seems to be thriving, having a puzzle to solve.  _

Standing shoulder to shoulder, the brothers watched as the light indicated which floor the lift was currently on sunk lower and lower en-route to their floor. Though neither party said a word Greg felt suffocated by the tension radiating off the two men. 

_ Family dinners must have been pleasant…  _ Greg thought, coming up to stand behind Sherlock. Mycroft squared his shoulders and somehow seemed to grow an extra inch, and Greg prepared himself to step between the two men. While he wasn’t a stranger to defusing altercations he couldn’t help but wonder if he was up to par for dealing with these two while having a tiff. 

Sherlock, however, didn’t turn on his brother or say anything at all. Instead, he placed both hands inside his coat pocket, and let out a slow sigh. The act deflated Mycroft a bit, and he found himself wondering if Mycroft possessed the same level of deduction that Sherlock exhibited. Or if the brilliance that had helped him gain such a high position within the government manifested in another way. 

Certainly, Mycroft had read his brother’s body language just then. Did that come from simple sibling familiarity? Or was there more behind the man in the three-piece suit, and the black sedan car that could show up at any location as if summoned by magic? Sherlock had once told him Mycroft dealt in secrets and information. Now he found himself wondering  _ how _ Mycroft got ahold of that information. 

“Greg, are you coming?” Sherlock’s question pulled him from his thoughts. With a sheepish grin, he realized Sherlock and Mycroft were both inside the lift and had been long enough for the doors to start closing. Sherlock had one arm stretched out, preventing it from shutting all the way.    


“Just coming.” Stepping inside he placed himself between the two men just in case sparks began to fly between the two of them. He didn’t relish the idea of being stuck inside a metal box with the two of them. “Sherlock’s made an important discovery,” he added by way of distraction as Mycroft pushed a button to close the doors now that everyone was inside the lift. 

“Yes, while Greg’s men were tracing the van back to the owner, murdered, by the way. I managed to piece together a plausible route the van could have taken using CCTV footage and reports from emergency service vehicles experiencing GPS outages.” Sherlock said, his tone clipped, though Greg figured it was better than nothing. 

“You’re thinking whatever he used to jam John’s signal also disrupted the signal from those vehicles?” Mycroft considered it for a moment. Finding it fit in with his line of reasoning, nodded before prodding for more, “And?”

“We lost him as they headed East on the A13. Our guess is he’s familiar with the area, so he knew where to drive to avoid cameras.” Greg supplied, saving Sherlock from having to answer. He wasn’t sure what had Sherlock so on edge, but beads of sweat had begun collecting on Sherlock’s forehead. He shot Sherlock a worried glance, but the younger man simply gave him a shake of his head. 

“It can be reasoned then, that they are East of the city? No chances he doubled back, to throw off our tail?” Tapping his foot against the floor Mycroft nodded slowly, mapping out the information in his mind. 

“We’re looking into that now.” Sherlock sounded resentful. As if the very notion that they hadn’t already considered that a slap in the face. Greg cast another sideways glance at his friend just in time to see Sherlock shut his eyes and mouthed what appeared to be a silent count to five before resuming his haughty demeanor, “This is John we’re talking about. I wouldn’t be that careless.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Mycroft mused as they reached their floor. He stepped out as soon as the doors opened before Sherlock had time to reply.

“Sherlock, hold up,” Greg muttered, placing a hand on Sherlock’s arm to stop him from immediately following. “ Mycroft is trying to push your buttons. He probably thinks you aren’t up for this, don’t prove him right. Save your breath for Sholto, I’ll deal with that prat.” Greg nodded towards Mycroft’s retreating form.   
  
“Feel free to punch him. I happen to know his nose is still bothering him.” Sherlock hissed softly as Greg let go of his arm.

“His nose?” Greg thought back to Mycroft’s face, trying to remember if he’d noticed a crooked nose.   
  
“Mmm. John punched him not too long ago. Regretfully he didn’t break it.” Sherlock had a hint of pride in his voice, and it was all Greg could do not to laugh out loud.   
  
“The more I learn about John, the more I pity the poor sod who took him,” Greg muttered, earning a faint smile from Sherlock. He followed the two brothers down a narrow hall. He’d been to Mycroft’s office before and expected to be led into the dark room that felt more like a prison cell than a posh office. Curiosity bloomed as Mycroft walked straight past his office. Instead, Mycroft stopped two doors down. He swiped a key card over the electronic lock then waited with his hands on the doorknob for them to catch up. 

Sherlock reached his brother first, grabbing hold of the door itself he pulled it open and stepped through the entrance. He stopped just inside, turned to Greg and his brother, and in a cool, but even voice said “Give me ten minutes.” before pulling the door shut behind him, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone in the hall before either man had time to protest.   
  
Keeping his back turned towards the room, Sherlock stared at the back of the door until he could no longer hear his pulse beating in his ears. Being this far underground was unnerving him more than he wanted to admit. The very air with that unmistakable damp scent found in basements made his head swim. Feeling every second of his ten minutes tick by, Sherlock pulled himself together and turned towards the man who was responsible for John’s current state. 

“Sholto,” he said briskly, clasping his hands behind his back. He let his eyes drag over the man seated at the far end of the table. Half his face was scarred beyond repair, but the man sat with his back straight and eyes forward, an air of pride surrounded him.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes and the man you’ve set a monster against is my fiance. I am here to inform you,  _ Major, that _ you have messed with the wrong man.” Sitting a chair directly to Sholto’s left, Sherlock made a point to directly stare into the eye on the scarred side of his face. Fighting hard to maintain the level of calm rage he wanted to project, Sherlock folded his hands on the table and leaned forward, invading Sholto’s personal space.

“You see if you had done something to  _ me _ . Well, at worst, John would have simply killed you to get me back. I, however, will  _ ruin _ you. Whatever comforts or protection my brother has promised you in return for your cooperation, I can assure you if we do not get John back home alive and well, I will personally see that anything my brother promised you doesn’t come to fruition.”    
  
Despite being so close that he could feel the other man’s breath against his face, Sholto didn’t as much as blink in return. Sherlock regarded the man beside him, recalling the way John had spoken of him with something akin to pride in his voice. Sherlock could see why John would have enjoyed working with a man who was able to stand his ground under stressful circumstances. Still, that did not mean he had to like him. He was here for answers, and to get his fiance back, no matter who he had to hurt to accomplish that.

“Whatever caused this,” Sherlock lifted a single hand, gesturing broadly at the situation, then focused hard on Sholto’s features for any sign of admission, “you fucked up and I want to know why. What was it? Hmm? Were you scared that John had gone rogue? Worried he was now working against you? About to reveal  _ all _ your dirty little secrets from The Jungle. Things the men above you didn’t know about?” 

A corner of Sholto’s mouth twitched in discomfort at that. Sitting back in his chair, Sherlock let a satisfied smile tug at his own lips. He’d struck a nerve, and they both knew it. “Ahh, so you were under the impression that John had turned informant.”   
  
Sholto gave one single nod in agreement. His eyes flicked from their forward trajectory and met Sherlock’s for the first time. Sherlock understood the self-loathing he saw in those eyes. He understood what it felt like to be without someone like John by his side. However, now was not a time to pity the man who had orchestrated John’s kidnapping. 

“I assume my brother gave you a variation of John’s last mission?” Sholto graced Sherlock with another nod before his eyes went back to staring straight ahead. “Did he tell you who The Lion was reactivated to save? No?” Sholto shook his head and flinched when Sherlock violently pushed his chair away from the table, the wheels scraping against the floor tiles. “That would have been me.” 

“I was being held and tortured by a group of insurgents in Serbia. Mycroft had reportedly sent men to liberate me before going to John. All attempts to reach me failed. Knowing there was more to the man than soft jumpers and a quick temper, he did some digging and found a rather large gap in John’s military career. A few favors later, he discovered that John just happened to have the right skill set needed to slip in and rescue me.”   
  
With that, Sherlock stood, peeled off his coat then began unbuttoning his suit jacket. Draping both coat and jacket over the chair he turned his back to Sholto and began unbuttoning his shirt. When the top half of the buttons were undone, he carefully lowered the shirt from his shoulders, revealing the top half of his back to the Major. For the second time that day, he felt the weight of hungry eyes morbidly feasting on the patchwork of wounds on his back.

“John saved me from that. From a situation that would have killed me within weeks, if only from an infection of one sort or another.” Keeping the shirt lowered for a moment longer, ensuring Sholto had time enough to take in the array of scars on his back, he continued, “and you condemned him to death by hiring a mentally unstable known killer. When you should have  _ spoken _ to him first.” Sherlock’s voice turned into a snarl and he turned around, letting Sholto see how the marks carried over to his chest as he began buttoning his shirt back up.

“You  _ will _ tell me everything you know about West, or I will personally see you ruined..” With an air of casual calm that he did not feel Sherlock retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair, put it on then sat back down.

“If any of your information aids in John’s safe return, I will live the rest of my life pretending you don’t exist, but you will be allowed to. On sufferance.” 

Sherlock settled back, making himself comfortable. He allowed himself a brief moment, while Sholto was considering how to respond, to congratulate himself on keeping the ever-present anxiety at bay. Right now he needed to appear calm and collected. Sholto would respond best to a straightforward approach. He’d known that the second he’d laid eyes on him. So, with all cards on the table and his position clearly made, there was nothing left to do but wait.

  
  


***   
  
**Time since John went missing: Seventeen hours thirty minutes  
** **Friday Morning: 1200**   
  


Sherlock loathed every minute spent in his brother’s offices. He wasn’t sure which was worse, being in the same room as the man who had failed to help John or being underground again. Sholto was telling his story. He’d started from the beginning when he’d received an alert that someone from The Jungle had been activated. He spoke of his concern, his fear that West’s last action would become public knowledge if people dug too deeply. 

Hearing Sholto speak of that incident, his voice void of emotion, made Sherlock’s skin crawl. He found himself twisting his engagement ring around his finger. No one else seemed to notice or care, but he moved his hands from on top of the table to his lap, where he continued to worry at the silver band.

It took Sholto an hour to tell his story. Sherlock noted with no small amount of annoyance how little remorse the Major had. Sholto spoke as if his life was nothing more than a series of orders to be followed out. As if hiring West to kidnap John had been as ordinary as deciding if he’d have porridge or toast for breakfast. The longer Sholto talked in that low monotone voice, the more Sherlock felt the pressure that came with being underground. 

The pressure built until Sherlock almost believed the walls were closing in around him. He was about to excuse himself when Greg tapped his leg, and under the table made a walking motion with two of his fingers. Sherlock understood immediately and didn’t hesitate to heed the advice. Pushing his chair back, this time quietly as not to disturb the story, he began to pace the perimeter of the room. He could feel the weight of his brother’s gaze on him but ignored him in favor of listening to Sholto. The Major had just reached the part in his story, where he realized John was missing.    


“You said we twice, who is ‘we’ and where are they?” Sherlock watched as Sholto’s face, which had become relaxed over the last hour, tensed up into a look of surprise. _ Did Mycroft not ask him whether or not he was working alone? Foolish, overlooking that. _

Feeling pleased he’d discovered something his brother had missed, he rounded on Sholto with every ounce of ferocity he could muster. The force made the man sit back in his chair, then he hung his head meekly as Sherlock demanded, “Who!” 

“My PA, Eleanor, and a small team. They’re back at the hotel, attempting to locate West,” Sholto sighed, then with a defeated tone told Mycroft where to find his team.

“Good, have them come here. We’ll pool our resources. You and your team now work for Mycroft and the British Government. You should feel right at home, having someone boss you about, Major.” Sherlock turned to his brother who didn’t seem at all surprised by Sherlock’s announcement. “Mycroft, your men are better equipped to track finances, emails, personal phone calls, that sort of thing. It would take the MET ages to pull warrants. Greg and I have a few leads to follow up on, however, so we will not be idle.”

Having a missing van to trace was work Sherlock could throw himself into. For now, that was his top priority, and he needed to spread the word to his homeless network. Gathering his belongings up in his arms he headed towards the door and was just about to push it open when something Sholto said caught his attention. Spinning on his heels he dropped his coat onto the nearest chair, braced himself with both hands on the table, and snarled, “Say that again.” 

“We have cause to believe that wherever West is located, the area is protected by explosives.” 

Sherlock had been hoping for a simple rescue. Find the van, find John, rescue John. This news threw a wrench into that whole plan. Even if Mycroft was unable to find concrete evidence that bombs were involved, he would not allow anyone, not even the loose cannon that was his brother, to approach any building suspected of housing John and West. No, now once the location was discovered, they would all have to sit and wait patiently as a bomb squad was ordered.

“What makes you think that?” Sherlock gritted out between clenched teeth.

“We have access to his email,” Sholto said and a smug look of satisfaction settled over his scarred features. 

Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eyes as Mycroft’s shoulders twitched in annoyance. Either Mycroft had failed to ask if Sholto’s had discovered anything pertinent, or Sholto had refused to answer. This new information, from the mention of explosives to the admission of having access to his email, upset Mycroft as much as it upset him.

“We discovered a string of messages,” Sholto continued calmly as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell, “between West and a former member of The Jungle. That member being our former chief explosion expert, Byrd.”

“Tell me everything,” Sherlock growled as he sat back down beside Greg. He’d been so close to fresh air, and getting out of this claustrophobic basement. And as much as he wanted to breathe freely again, this information would be far too important to miss. If he simply left it up to Mycroft to relay back to him he’d miss being able to read the Major’s body language. With a deep breath, he reminded himself that he was in a government building, not a Serbian prison. Then, looking at his brother he demanded, “Someone get Byrd in here so we can question him.”   
  
“I’m afraid Byrd has gone underground,” Sholto informed him in a level voice. It took a hand on his shoulder from Greg to stop from reaching over the table to keep Sherlock from strangling the man. Sherlock settled back in his chair, and gave Greg a short nod, then turned to look at his brother.

“We need to find him,  _ now. _ If John manages to escape and he isn’t aware of the possibility of explosives… things could go wrong  _ very _ quickly.” Turning back to Sholto, he added, “Tell me everything you can remember from those emails, and I’ll need copies of them before I leave here.”

***

**Time since John went missing: Twenty hours twenty minutes  
** **Friday Afternoon: 1350**

While Greg and Mycroft talked logistics on their way to the lift, Sherlock pushed ahead of them and headed straight for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he let out a sigh of relief the moment he reached the ground floor. Angry at himself over his reaction to being underground, he pushed his way through the lobby and pushed the doors open with both hands.

The crisp spring hair hit his face and sent gooseflesh down his neck and arms. It felt good after the time spent in the stuffy basement conference room. Sherlock stood just outside the entrance for a long moment, letting the sun hit his face and breathing in the fresh air.

Perhaps it was the pent up anxiety, or from spending so much time with his brother on an official matter. But Sherlock found himself thankful for the wall supporting his weight. After a moment of contemplating, Sherlock huffed out a breath and reached inside his Belstaff. Out of his breast pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Without a second thought, he lit the end and took a deep drag. 

_ You’re not here to tell me it’s bad for my health… _ he thought bitterly, pursing his lips and blowing a cloud of smoke out in front of him. He wasn’t sure how many rules he was breaking for smoking on government property, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. His fiance was missing, he’d just spent an insufferable few hours below ground, listening to his brother and Sholto prattle like schoolyard chums. He was going to smoke, and no one would stop him.

“You’re not smoking that in my car. I’ve only just got the scent out.” Greg’s voice cut into his thoughts and he instantly straightened but fought the urge to hide the cigarette behind his back. 

“Give me one, will you?” 

Handing over the lighter and the pack then went back to leaning against the wall. He sucked in another long drag, willing the nicotine to ease his nerves. Unsure of what to do next, and not wanting to admit that out loud to anyone, he knew he needed to relax. 

“Is this even legal?” Greg asked after a long exhale. 

“Who cares,” shrugging Sherlock tapped the end of his fag, watching as specks of ash fluttered to the ground.

They took their time, savoring the last dregs of their cigarettes. By the time Sherlock was forced to drop his to the ground and snuff it out he felt marginally better than he had ten minutes prior. Better yet, he had a plan. 

"Hand me the keys," Sherlock demanded, holding out a hand towards Greg, who wasn’t quite finished smoking yet. Armed with a plan, or most of a plan, he scrunched his brows in annoyance. Every moment wasted was a moment spent without John. 

"Not letting you drive. Sorry, Sherlock," Greg shook his head, took a drag then added, "One, I'd be put on report for letting a civilian drive a police car. Second, you look as if you're about to murder someone, and I'd rather  _ my _ car not be the murder weapon."

"Fine. It's been hours and your men haven't phone with anything useful. You and I are going for a drive. We need to pinpoint which direction West took when he exited the motorway. The only way to do that is to go scout the area for CCTV cameras. So either drive me, or I'll get a cab." 

Not wanting to unleash a raw and emotional Sherlock on the public. Greg let out a slow dejected sigh before nodding and stamping out his cigarette. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and gave his messages a once over. He had three texts from Donovan, but they were all updates saying there was nothing new to report. Nodding towards the car park, he began walking towards his car, Sherlock hard on his heels.

“Right, it's as good of a plan as we’ve got. But we do this by the book, Sherlock. We don’t threaten people to get copies of their CCTV footage. We let my badge do the talking, understood?” Having reached the car, Greg stared at Sherlock long and hard. He was all for helping his friend, and for getting John back. However, Sherlock had to understand that this was his job, and there were procedures he had to follow.  “Yes, understood,” Sherlock returned Greg’s stare then nodded. Climbing inside the car, Sherlock waited for Greg to start the engine before lowering his window a few inches. While not as bad as the basement had been, the air inside the car was too stuffy for his liking. As they started moving, he let the side of his face press against the glass and breathed in the fresh air.

Sherlock watched silently as the streets of London flashed past them. As they drew closer to the motorway a mixture of anticipation and dread swirled around inside his stomach. Somehow, just knowing they were nearing the road that had helped usher his finance away from him, tied his guts up in a knot. 

Trying hard to push thoughts of what life would be like if they failed to trace the van, he began counting lamp posts as they flashed past them Once Greg merged onto the A13, and increased their speed, he began focusing on blue cars. In one such car, he spotted a family of four. More than half of the occupants inside the car were merrily singing along to something on the radio.  _ Look at them _ .  _ Happy, content. I want that, with John. I want to take random weekend holidays. I want to slow down and enjoy the time we have. Will I get that chance? _

Anxiety swirled within him, causing his stomach to cramp painfully. A flash of heat crawled along his neck and face, making the window fog where it was still pressed against his forehead. Thoughts of what life would be like without John began creeping in on him, and he felt his thin grasp on reality beginning to fade.

“Talk to me… I’m struggling to hold on,” he rasped out. Typically, voicing a weakness such as this would have gone against everything he’d fought so hard to achieve. He’d worked for years to perfect the impression that he was a self-indulgent, brilliant man who only cared about the puzzles. But knowing that he would only be useful to John if he still had his wits about him he allowed himself to show Greg his vulnerable side.

“You seemed uncomfortable, back there,” Greg said, reminding Sherlock that Greg had already been aware of his vulnerable side. More than once he’d demonstrated his ability, and desire, to help. From the offer to handle Mycroft himself, to encouraging Sherlock to expel his energy by walking around the room. Greg had shown himself to be a valuable friend during these trying times.

“In Serbia, I was held underground in less than savory conditions. While Mycroft’s suite is considerably more posh than my prison, being in a basement was… suffocating. I didn’t think it would bother me…” Sherlock admitted softly, still watching the family in the blue car.

“How do you feel now?” The question was simple, but like so many of John’s simple questions, it made Sherlock think.

“I feel nervous, upset, worried we won't get John back. Just the thought that we’re traveling the same path as West makes me feel like I have spiders crawling all over my skin. I can’t decide if I want to get out of the car and scream, or continue on and find the bastard. It all just feels like… too much.”

“Side effect of caring, I’m afraid… I know that feeling well.” Greg said gently, and something in his voice made Sherlock tear his eyes off of the blue car and look at the D.I. Greg’s face was ashen, his lips set tight and fine stress lines were visible around his eyes. For the first time since enlisting Greg’s help, Sherlock found himself realizing that Greg must be suffering as well. After all, he and John had become friends over the years. What was it like for him, being the leading officer on a missing persons case, when that missing person was a friend? Was that even allowed? Had Greg pulled strings, or rank, to be put on the case? 

“Must be how John felt during some of our previous cases. He cares so much, so passionately about our clients. He took a personal interest in each of them. Meanwhile, I only cared about the puzzle, and how it would keep me from getting bored.” Looking back out the window, Sherlock noticed the family had either fallen behind or gotten off the motorway. He began searching for another blue car.

“Come now, that isn’t entirely true.” Greg cut in, his voice firm but caring. “You  _ care _ Sherlock. Sure, you mostly care about the puzzle. But we both know that a part of you cares about your clients. Why else would you have become a detective?”

“What else was there for me?” Sherlock scoffed, wondering how it was that after all these years Greg still had faith in him, faith that he was a better person than he let people believe. 

“You could have accepted Mycroft’s offer to work for the MI5. You could have become a criminal yourself… You could have gone back to where I found you. But instead, you made a career for yourself  _ helping _ people.”

“Me… work for the M15. Like James Bond?” The very notion made Sherlock snort out a small bubble of laughter. “Thank you,” he said quietly, feeling he owed Greg a margin of gratitude for the simple act of laughter. It had washed away a small portion of the anxiety weighing him down and helped push the panic attack out of his mind. Greg simply smiled and gave him a brief nod. 

“The exit where we lost them is right up here,” maneuvering the car around a lorry, Greg got them into the proper lane to take the exit off the A13 then asked, “What’s the plan?”

“You drive, I’ll keep an eye out for any cameras along the way. There is a good chance we’ll pass a house or two that have CCTV cameras watching over their driveways. And of course, if we pass any shops, they might have one or two as well. Then it will be a matter of chatting with the owners, finding out how long their system keeps the footage for, and acquiring a copy.” As far as plans went, this was far from his most cunning plan. It seemed to satisfy Greg, however, who only added one clause.

“Right, and remember, Sherlock, my badge does the talking.” Greg reiterated, and Sherlock just hummed in agreement.

As they made their way down the exit ramp Sherlock craned his neck to look out the window. As they rounded the bend, Sherlock noticed the CCTV camera that monitored the traffic leaving the motorway.  _ The last camera to film John…  _ Sherlock’s mouth went dry at the realization.  _ No, it can’t be the last... There are others out there, we just have to find them. I will find you, John, I swear. _

  
  


***   
**Time since John went missing: Twenty hours twenty minutes  
** **Friday Afternoon: 1350**

Time had little meaning inside his dark prison. Minutes felt like hours, and no matter how much time he thought had passed between each glance at his watch it was never enough. His internal clock seemed to be able to wait no more than fifteen minutes without having to check the time. Though John was partly convinced that alone came from the desire for light. He had his torch, and while he was certain he could get the small device shoved deep inside a pocket before West had the door open, he was trying not to take risks. All it would take is a careless move, and it could fall to the floor. Where it would take him ages to find, and risk catching West’s attention. 

However, John was beginning to wonder if West would make an appearance again that day. It had been over seven hours since he’d shown his face. John could hear him moving about in the next room, he’d even been forced to listen to West singing some twisted song set to the tune of a nursery rhyme. And while at times West’s footsteps carried him close to the door, he had left him entirely to himself. Which both pleased John, and made him nervous. 

Being left alone meant, the worst that could happen was he’d die of boredom. Whereas interacting with West meant there was a strong possibility his body would be forcibly reminded of what it felt like to have a bullet tear through flesh and bone. 

_ How did you do this for weeks, Sherlock? I feel as if I’ve lost touch with reality already, and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.  _ Leaning his head against the cold stone opposite from the only entrance, John let out a frustrated sigh. The fingers of his left hand sought out the fingers on his other hand. When he ran his thumb and index finger over his right ring finger, his heart skipped a beat then began widely beating inside his chest.

_ Fuck… fuck.. Where is it? _

Scrambling around inside his pocket he fished out the torch and stared at his right hand. With an equal mix of horror and anger, he confirmed what his fingers had felt. His engagement ring was gone. For a frantic few seconds, John wondered if he’d taken his ring off at work, but he pushed that notion out of his head. He’d worn gloves when with patients, and he remembered getting soap suds out from underneath the ring when he’d washed up to go home. 

Fingers shaking from agitation he shone the light on the floor and began looking for his ring. He circled the tiny room four times, crossed over the center half a dozen times, and found nothing. Bone deep defeat began to find home inside his very core, as he considered the possibility that his ring had either fallen off, or been taken off, somewhere between the station platform, and West tossing him in this cell. 

_West could have removed it any time after he drugged me, and I wouldn’t have known. It fit snugly enough, so I doubt it fell off on its own. But why would West remove it? Ohh…._ _he kept it for himself._

Rage boiled through John as he thought back to West’s conduct back when they worked together in The Jungle. West had been a known perpetrator of petty thefts around the base, and a suspect in a few larger thefts. If something wasn’t nailed down, and West caught wind, chances are the item would appear inside his barracks in short order. 

West had stolen from him once before, and right in front of him. Though John still blamed himself to this day. On the afternoon of their second to last day together, the day John had been forced to put down West’s final victim like he was a wounded dog, West had come to see him in his barracks. He’d entered the small room that he’d shared with Byrd and wordlessly had sat down on John’s bunk. 

Busy filling out paperwork as to  _ why _ he’d been forced to kill someone, rather than administer medical treatment, John mostly ignored the other man until West had gotten bored and left without saying a word. Because of that, it wasn’t until the next day when John the base was informed they had twelve hours to pack up and report to new posts, that John realized anything was missing from his barracks. 

He’d taken his grandfather’s old service revolver with him everywhere he went. It was stored in a small portable case with a locking padlock, which he’d kept under his cot. Upon packing, John found it missing, and it didn’t take long for him to put West’s presence and the theft together. 

_ If he did take my ring, I swear to god, I will kill him. My grandfather's gun was one thing. My engagement ring is another. He will pay for this.  _ Fuming John had to fight the urge to punch the stone wall. _ It won't help, I’ll just risk breaking a finger, then I’ll be in pain on top of being bored. Save the anger for him, channel it, use it to get the fuck out of here. _

Growing tired of pacing, John settled back into what he now considered to be  _ his spot,  _ directly across from the door. From his spot, he was able to hear West singing his rendition of Baa Baa Black Sheep, the words twisted into a haunting version that belonged in a post-apocalyptic movie. 

Staring at his now bare right ring finger, John embraced the anger as it steadily built up inside him. He used the anger, hatred, and frustration as fuel for his plans. Entertaining thoughts of strangling West, or simply snapping his neck, filled his thoughts as he listened to his former comrade sing in the next room.

_ Step step, jump jump  
_ _ Over the cords you go  
_ _ Jump sir, jump sir,  
_ _ Or it'll blow. _

  
  
***

**Time since John went missing: Twenty-three hours thirty-seven minutes  
** **Friday Evening: 1707**

“I should be out there,” Sherlock shouted as he gestured angrily at the windows of 221B, “Finding him!” 

“Sherlock, we have footage from seven different security systems to go through, some of them have over two days worth of footage recorded. I understand your frustration, but this isn’t a sci-fi movie, we can’t just push it through some computer system that can find the van instantly. My men actually have to  _ watch _ the footage. We won’t know where to start looking unless we’re able to spot the van and link it to an actual location.” Greg  _ nearly _ shouted back but at the last moment, he managed to restrain himself to an annoyed growl. Shouting at Sherlock wouldn’t solve anything, it would just frustrate the both of them, and by the wild look in Sherlock’s eyes, he was already a tad past frustrated. 

“I can’t just sit here while John is out there,” Sherlock stood up from his chair and walked to the closest window, looking down at the street, wishing John would be there waving up at him, “They say the first twenty-four hours are crucial in recovering lost persons alive. I cannot just sit here,” he added in a near whisper. He knew the statistics as well as Lestrade. The more time that went by without any new information meant the fewer John’s chances were.

“Mate, there isn’t much any of us can do until we’ve reviewed the footage,” Greg said kindly, he wanted to go to his friend, place an arm around him and tell him that they were all doing their best. But having a heart to heart alone was one thing, allowing himself to be physically comforted in front of MET officers was another. Greg wasn’t sure how Sherlock would take it.

“It isn’t enough…” Moving away from the window Sherlock picked up his Belstaff from the back of his chair and ignored Greg’s look of alarm at the notion of going out. “Do you have those pictures of the van? I can distribute them to my homeless network. At least then I’ll be doing  _ something _ .” 

Someone handed him a stack of printed off still caps of the van. Without thanks, he folded the papers in half once, then stuffed them into one of his pockets. Greg gave him a worried look but didn’t move to stop him, just raised his eyebrow in silent disapproval. Sighing, Sherlock acknowledged the look with a roll of his eyes. “Greg, I’ve got my mobile, I’ll call if there is trouble, as long as you promise to call me if you’ve discovered something.” 

“Fine… but I want you back in three hours, and you’ll check in every hour. We don’t know for certain that West wouldn’t go after  _ you _ , given the chance.” Greg didn’t like the thought of Sherlock going off alone, and he was certain Mycroft would be sending him an angry text, but the alternative option was a cooped up, and frustrated, Sherlock Holmes. Then there was the simple fact that having extra eyes looking for the van would be useful. Even if they weren’t properly trained police men and women, Sherlock’s network had proven useful more than once in the past. 

“Yes, dad.” With another roll of his eyes, Sherlock agreed to the terms, then went into the kitchen where he’d left his wallet and keys earlier. Feeling slightly grounded, having a course of action to complete, he hurried down the stairs. Before he’d reached the outside door, he’d sent half a dozen texts to his network, telling the leaders where to meet him and when.

It took less than an hour to hand out the pictures, and Sherlock found himself not wanting to go back to the confinement of the flat. He thought of walking to the area where John had been taken but decided against that. Mycroft’s men would have been all over the area searching for clues. If they hadn’t found anything by now, chances of him finding anything were slim. 

_ However…  _ he stopped dead in his tracks as the thought hit him.  _ Lestrade and I only canvased one area off the A13. I have his spare badge. I bet I could knock off a few businesses in my remaining time.  _

With his first check in to Lestrade due soon anyway, Sherlock sent Greg a text informing him where he was going, and that he  _ might _ be a little later than the three hours given to him.  _ I’m a grown man, I don’t need a curfew. Still, I’ll humor him, and check in often. _ He and Greg had initially taken a left off the motorway, assuming it likely that West would double back in an attempt to cover his tracks. Directing his driver in the opposite direction, Sherlock spotted a small shopping plaza not too far from the A13 and asked him to pull in there.   
  
Sherlock spent the next hour chatting with various employees inside the business. It didn’t take him long to discover that, while they had a CCTV camera out in the car park, it hadn’t been operational for quite some time. He started showing anyone he came across a picture of West from his mobile. By the time he’d reached the last store in the plaza, the steady stream of rejection and apathetic behaviour was wearing him thin. Preparing him for one more “No, Sir, I haven’t seen him” he pushed inside the shop and cringed with annoyance as a bell loudly announced his arrival. 

“Afternoon,” a balding man behind the counter called out. Taking one look around the shop, Sherlock saw that it was a hodgepodge of items. Shelves jam packed with items from paper products like toilet paper and plastic cutlery, to basic food items (mostly canned) made the shop feel much smaller than it really was. The isles were so close together that his coat brushed against them as he made his way towards the counter.

“Afternoon,” he said, echoing the man’s greeting and briefly flashing Greg’s badge. “I’m  _ with  _ the MET. I need to ask you a few questions about this man.” He held up his mobile showing the man a side by side picture of West, one of them his enlistment photograph, the second the picture Mycroft’s team had taken when he’d first arrived in London.

“Oh! Nice man, he’s in here every few days.” the shopkeeper's eyes lit up in recognition and Sherlock had to blink as his brain registered the words. 

“What does he usually buy?” Hope swelled up inside Sherlock and he had to fight to keep his expression blank.  _ He knows this man… in here every few days. I’m close.  _

“Necessities, drinks, snacks. Just normal things,” the man shrugged as if his purchases were of no real consequence, but for Sherlock it meant so much more.

“A few items at a time? Or all at once?” 

“Oh, he’ll come get one or two things. He’s always walking, so he asks that I pack his bags light.” 

“When was the last time you saw him?” Sherlock asked nervously. He’d allowed himself some hope, but what if this man hadn’t seen West in months? 

“Two… maybe three days ago?” Shrugging the shopkeeper didn’t seem to notice the way Sherlock’s own shoulders relaxed at the revelation. 

“Which way does he go?” Forcing his voice to remain calm was no easy feat, but he managed well enough as the man didn’t seem alarmed by his interest.

“Uhh… towards the Thames.” The man squinted in thought, then pointed towards the river, nodding as if agreeing with himself, “Yeah, definitely towards the river.”   
  
“Thank you. You’ve been incredibly helpful. If you happen to see him again, please call D.I. Lestrade at this number,” handing him one of Greg’s business cards Sherlock turned on his heels and made his way back out of the shop, taking care not to knock things off the shelves in his haste.

_**Found a lead. Someone recognized West. Has a direction for me. Walking distance so I’m heading out on foot to follow up - SH** _   
  
**Where are you? I’ll be right there. Be careful until I arrive.**

Sherlock shared his location with Greg. Out in the car park now, he looked around and found a road that seemed to head in the general direction of the river. Giving Greg the street name, he headed across the carpark. Greg was on his way, he’d found someone who had seen West recently, and West always walked. 

_ There is a chance the bastard drives here, parks his car down the road then walks over… but he goes out of his way to make his bags light. Easy for walking. And we know he’d only recently stolen the van. He feels safe here because there is no surveillance. Question is… does he pass a camera on his walk?  _

Keeping his eyes open for homes with security cameras facing the road, he began tracing what he hoped to be West’s steps. With any luck, he could have John back by the end of the day. 

***

**Time since John went missing: 1 day, thirty minutes  
** **Friday Evening: 1800**

Sherlock found himself glad that Greg was on his way after walking for what felt like ages. He was also thankful that John had been so insistent on physical training for more than just his shoulder. The trips up and down the stairs over and over didn’t seem quite as pointless now, as he walked down the narrow road. Still, he was thankful he wouldn’t have to walk all the way back to the plaza, where he could pick up another taxi. 

He passed house after house, making note of any that had security cameras so the police could follow up on those leads. While he wanted to knock on their doors and ask himself, he knew that was a job for an actual officer, just a man with a stolen badge. Plus Greg’s warning hung in the back of his mind. West  _ could _ be after him, and if he happened to knock on the door of West’s hideout, would he be able to fight off the madman? _ Probably not with my shoulder…  _

As he walked the houses became more spread out and the road more abandoned. Potholes spoke of years of neglect and Sherlock felt that tingle of anticipation rise within him again. An abandoned house, if there was one down this far, would be a perfect hideout. He got the feeling in his gut that he was on the right trail, so quickening his steps he hurried forward, making certain to keep an eye out for any traffic (vehicular or pedestrian) coming from the opposite direction.    
  
Eventually, the road opened up to a row of empty warehouses. Dim evening light reflecting off the waters of the Thames could be seen sporadically between the buildings. Sherlock stood in the shadows of a large tree and took in the sight before him.  _ This would be a marvelous sight for a bolthole.  _ His mobile pined, so he stepped behind a tree and checked the message.

**At the shop. Going to interview this man properly. You okay?**

_**I believe I’ve found where they’re hiding out. Will observe only. -SH** _

Pulling up his map he took a screenshot of his location and sent that off to Greg with instructions to park a bit down the road as to remain out of sight. Then, looking around the tree, he took in the area ahead of him. 

Four warehouses could be seen clearly, with a fifth off to the right and mostly out of sight. A chest-high stone wall, decaying in spots, circled the nest of buildings. Sherlock thought that if he could make it to the stonewall unnoticed, he would gain a better view of the fifth warehouse. As he made to step from behind his tree, a glint of light against one of the windows made him pause. 

_ Was that someone in the window? Or my imagination?  _

It was a long sprint from his shelter behind the tree to the wall. The thought of someone in a second-story window looking down on him, possibly armed with a sniper rifle, unsettled him. Deciding it was safer to remain where he was, he crouched low, and tried to see into the buildings. But with the light behind them, and twilight coming on quickly, the windows that weren’t boarded up remained impossible to see through. 

Minutes went by, and nothing stirred past the stone wall, not even a bird. Still, he remained hidden behind his tree, watching for any signs of life. When his mobile vibrated in his hand and startled him, he nearly dropped it. Taking a few calming breaths he shifted so his body was hidden completely behind the tree. The last thing he needed now was the light from his mobile altering someone to his presence. 

**Nearly there… anything?**

_**Possible movement, though it is impossible to say for sure. Keep out of sight, we’re dealing with a sniper. -SH** _

Five minutes later Sherlock heard the crunching of footsteps on the road behind him. He spotted Greg a moment later, and waved him over. They crouched low on either side of the tree. Sherlock watched Greg’s reaction as he took in the buildings. After a moment, Greg nodded.

“I think you’ve found it, Sherlock. Question is, how do we go about finding which building they’re in?”

“We wait until nightfall, then go in and check the buildings out. I’ve already checked, there is a full moon tomorrow, so we should have enough light, if we dress in black…”

“But what about the bombs? We have to proceed as if we know for certain he’s got the place rigged.” 

“I don’t know… but I didn’t come this close just to sit around…” Just then a loud clap of thunder made Sherlock jump. With a curse, he looked up at the sky and saw the dark clouds come rolling in across the Thames.  _ I was too distracted. I didn’t notice the storm forming... _ Though he hated the thought of leaving John he knew he wouldn’t be able to function in the rain. “We’ll come back tomorrow, with a few of Mycroft’s men. Maybe someone from bomb disposal.”   
  
“Right, I’ll get some men to keep an eye on the place, just in case he tries to leave. If there’s anything the MET is good at, it’s a good old fashioned stakeout.” Relieved that Sherlock wasn’t intending on jumping feet first into what could be a nasty situation, Greg patted him on the back. “Come on, my car is just down the road. If we hurry we won't get soaked. I’ll call this in when we get there.”   
  
With that, the two of them took off through the trees until they were certain they were out of sight, then made a run for the car as the heavens opened up around them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art should be coming in shortly for the books (I'm super excited) and then I hope to get the first book up on lulu as soon as I can! I've already edited the first story and have it in PDF form so it will be ready to go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been a terrible fanfic author this past week. I've rekindled my love/hatred for League of Legends and have been playing their ARAM mode almost every free minute I have. Neglecting writing in the process. 
> 
> I can say that tomorrow when I sit down and continue chapter 8, it will be with a clear head and a fresh mind. So I guess the week-long break hasn't been for nothing. My brain was starting to look like a can of alphabet soup. Just random letters and words floating about. I "worded" for nearly 6 months straight before I needed a break, so that's good. 
> 
> I've also had about 3 glasses of wine tonight, in the past 4 hours, so we'll just say that this past week has been a small holiday for me. I mean, it was Christmas, after all. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this 4th chapter, we're almost hallway through this final story!

**Time since John went missing:** 1 day, 11 hours, 30 minutes  
**Saturday Morning:** 0500

For only the second time since his return to London, Sherlock woke to an empty bed. For the second time in two days, the sound of unfamiliar voices drifted down the hall. Wishing to drown out the reminder that his John was not there, he buried his head under the pillows.

_ You’re not doing him any good lounging in bed, Sherlock.  _ He chided himself as he stretched an arm out to the spot that should’ve held a still sleeping John.  _ But getting out of bed means facing a room full of strangers, and their pitying looks.  _ Sherlock let out a groan and scrubbed a hand over his face.  _ Well, what do you want? To find John, or avoid people?  _

Sherlock rolled over, curling up in John’s spot. The sheets still smelled like John’s aftershave, a woody, and earthy scent.  _ Why aren’t you here? Why did you go to work when you knew the danger hanging over your head. We could be hunkered down in bed, in each other’s arms waiting out the storm. _

The tears that Sherlock had fought so hard to hold back finally broke free of the dam he’d built. His whole body began to shake against the torrent of emotions. He let the tears flow freely and buried his face deep in John’s pillow as an audible sob wrenched its way free of his throat. Alone in the solitude of his room, comforted by the familiar scents of John, he allowed himself to cry. 

_ Why, John… Why?  _ He moaned into the pillow, desperately wishing the pillow would answer him back.  _ You know I can’t handle emotions. I’m not strong like you are. John, did you even think of what would happen to me if you don’t come home?  _

Sherlock wrapped one arm around the pillow, pressing it tightly against his face until he struggled to breathe through it. His other hand dug deep into the bedding as if clawing his way through the mattress would somehow bring John back. 

_ John, what will I do if I lose you? How am I to cope? We’ve been through so much together, and even more apart. I thought I would finally get to spend my life with you, together finally.  _

Soon it became difficult to quiet his sobs, so he gave up trying. So raw was his grief that he didn’t care if any of the officers currently residing in his sitting room heard.  _ After all, what am I without John?  _ He let himself cry until his throat was raw. When he’d finally gone silent, he lay there in John’s spot with an armful of blankets and pillows, his body shaking from the aftershocks. Feeling hollow, like a husk of a man, he pulled himself out of bed and stared at his reflection in the mirror. 

_ I’m nothing without John… _ he thought, bringing a finger up to poke at the dark circles under his eyes. The skin around his eyes was red and puffy. Despite his not caring earlier if anyone heard him cry, he didn’t want to be seen looking like this, especially Greg (who’d slept in John’s old room again).  _ Have a shower, collect yourself…  _ He told himself, then gathered up fresh clothes, and entered the bathroom.

He ran the water as hot as his battered body could stand it. The steam and heat from the water felt like a tiny slice of respite. He hung his head, letting the water run down his neck and spine, rolling his shoulders to help loosen stiff muscles.  _ I should be doing physio…  _ he thought grimly as a pain shot through his left shoulder.  _ John would be upset. Though, I could argue that I’ve had to prioritize my free time, and sleep has ranked more important.  _

While he knew that time was precious, he found he didn’t want to leave the warmth of the shower. He took his time washing himself, using John’s products instead of his. When he finally stepped out of the shower he went to the foggy mirror and shaved three days' worth of stubble from his cheeks. Habitually he reached for his bottle of aftershave, Creed Aventus. But as his hand hovered over the expensive bottle, he saw John’s generic brand sitting on the shelf beside it. He opted for the cheaper brand, splashed a few drops onto his palms, and inhaled the familiar scent. 

He dressed in simple clothes, forgoing his suits for more practical clothing. His suits were his armor, but today was a day for a different type of armor. He needed John’s strength, and while he couldn’t bring himself to actually put on one of John’s jumpers he dressed in a similar fashion. Old jeans, a thick cotton sweater, and black trainers replaced his normal attire. Far more practical for exploring abandoned buildings. Between the change in bathroom products and the clothing, he had to admit that it felt like he had a bit of John with him as he stepped into the hall. 

In the kitchen, he went about fixing a meager breakfast of tea and two pieces of toast. _Any other Saturday_ _morning_ , he thought, _John would be insisting on a full fry up._ Sherlock paused halfway through buttering his toast as a thought struck him. _Are you even being fed? God, why didn’t I think of that sooner?_

“Alright?” a sleepy voice asked as Greg shuffled into the kitchen, one hand rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Fine…” Sherlock huffed, scraping the rest of the butter onto his toast. He tossed the knife into the sink where it made a loud clatter. “I’ll be better when John is home.”

Sherlock was grateful when Greg simply nodded and reached for the kettle. He was still too raw from crying, too uncertain of his own ability to control his emotions. The last thing he wanted was wasting time on another emotional display when instead he should be coming up with a plan to bring John home. 

_ Get John home… That's today’s goal.  _ Sitting down he took a small bite of toast. Even though the bread felt like sawdust in his mouth he forced himself to chew, washing it down with a bit of tea, it was likely to be a long day and he would need the fuel.

“I’ve been thinking, Sherlock… West is a sniper.” Greg said as he popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

“And…” Sherlock sighed dryly.. Either Greg was a slow thinker in the mornings, or he had a point. Trying to remember that Greg was here to help, he did his best to keep the snark out of his voice.

“So we can’t just drive up, knock on the doors of those warehouses, and expect to walk away bullet free.” Greg stirred a bit of sugar into his tea, then fixed his own toast by helping himself to some jam from the fridge. He sat down across from Sherlock, and held his warm mug up, pressing it against his cheek, letting the warmth soak into his tired body.

“I believe I have a plan. But it will need some preparation and bulletproof vests.” Sherlock bit around the crust, then pushed his half eaten breakfast aside.

“Like what?”    
  
“What if we go in and make it look like we belong? Just a couple of maintenance men there to survey the empty lot. An orange safety vest, hard hats, a van borrowed from motorway maintenance…” Sherlock trailed off and Greg nodded slowly. 

“Could work, but we’ll have to tell Mycroft,” observed Greg, knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t be well pleased if he and Sherlock went off on their own. Plus, if something went wrong it wouldn’t hurt to have the power of the government at their backs.

  
  


***

**Time since John went missing:** 1 day, 13 hours, 30 minutes  
**Saturday Morning:** 0700

Two hours later Sherlock found himself in the back seat of Greg’s unmarked police car. Beside him sat one of the officers working the day shift on John's case. Up front Donovan sat beside Greg, who was driving them down the A13. He and Greg had wanted to be on site an hour earlier, but coordinating with Mycroft had slowed them down considerably.  _ Probably for the best, what Maintenance crew starts work that early?  _

Their plan was simple in theory, Though Sherlock was certain the execution would be far more tedious than expected. Donovan and a young officer named Beckett were to spend the morning canvassing the houses along the road leading to the warehouse. Their job was to get every second of CCTV footage they could and send it off to another team back at the flat, who would then comb through it looking for any signs of West. 

Meanwhile, he and Greg would meet up with someone from Mycroft’s office, who would be waiting for them in a work van. From there, the three of them would continue on towards the warehouses and begin inspecting them for any signs of life. He, Greg, and Mycroft’s man would all be wearing kevlar vests and carbon fiber hard hats. Neither piece of equipment promised them one hundred percent safety, but at the very least they would protect their vital organs. 

Second-guessing himself and their plan Sherlock felt his palms begin to sweat. He rubbed them on his jeans which only helped for a moment. He felt the pinpricks of anxiety crawling through his body.

_ Not now, I can’t panic now. I need to center myself, find a happy thought.  _

Closing his eyes, Sherlock shut out the sound of the tires against asphalt and the chatter between Greg and Donovan as he went over his instructions. He pushed everything aside until he was past the dark rooms of his mind palace, past the corridors and dark shadows that would pull him back to Serbia. He followed the only source of light to the far end of the hallway. The door at the end was a wooden door with familiar green paint, worn in places and unmistakably  _ home _ . Pushing it open with one hand, he held his breath and took in the sight that greeted him.

_ John sat in his armchair beside a cheery fire. As Sherlock entered he looked up from his book and smiled. Instantly Sherlock went to John’s side, kneeling on the floor between John’s legs. He collapsed forward, resting his head on one of John’s thighs, and whispered, “I need you.” _

_ John looked down with a kind smile, setting aside the book and stroking one of his steady hands through Sherlock’s hair.  _

_ “What is it, love?” John asked gently, continuing his soft caresses.  _

_ The kindness in John’s voice made Sherlock’s heartache for the real thing. He wanted this to be more than just a memory, a projection pieced together in his mind from fragments of memories he’d stored away. His chest tightened, and for a moment the image of John and their moment of bliss flickered out of focus, the sound of tires on pavement returned. Gathering his composure, he recalled the scene, then confessed to John what he was too afraid to admit out loud, “I’m scared.”  _

_ “What are you afraid of?” _

_ “That this plan won't work, and we’ll tip West off that we’ve found his hideout. That West will shoot me before I can find you.” _

_ “Look at you,” Sherlock tilted his head so he could meet John’s eyes. John was smiling at him, it was the smile that said he was unspeakably proud of him. The one reserved for when Sherlock said thank you without being prompted, or when he’d remembered to pick up milk on the way home. It made Sherlock’s chest yearn to see that smile again in person.“You’ve learned your life is not your own. You’ve learned caution while demonstrating you’re still willing to do whatever it takes to do what you think is right.” _

_ “But what good is that?” Sherlock huffed. _

_ “Tell me, love. What is it you hope to accomplish? What will inspecting the warehouses gain you?” _

_ “I’ll be able to tell if they’ve been used recently, or if they’ve just become a spot for local kids to hang out. If West is using one of the buildings as his hideout, there should be clues. Then there is the matter of the bombs. Mycroft can’t assemble a bomb squad until we have a bomb to defuse. So finding the location is vital. Plus… I need to be close to you, even if you don’t know I’m there.” _

_ “Is there another way?” John asked, his hand sliding down the nape of Sherlock’s neck, slipping under his collar. Sherlock shuddered and he arched his neck at the touch. _

_ “Wait until nightfall and sneak around. I wouldn’t be able to risk a torch, so my visibility would be less accurate. This is the smartest choice.” Sherlock pulled free of John’s lap and nearly whimpered as John’s hand fell back to rest on his own knee. Sherlock rose up on his knees until his and John’s faces were on the same level. He looked John square in the eye as he said, “This plan has the highest possibility of bringing you home sooner. Waiting until dark means I have to accept that you won't come home tonight.” _

_ Nodding in understanding John cupped Sherlock’s cheeks with both his hands. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but at that moment Greg’s voice shattered the illusion of his mind palace.  _

“Ready?” Greg said from his immediate left, Sherlock opened his eyes to see that not only had the car stopped but Greg was already outside, holding his door open. Greg, already dressed in the safety equipment, held a portable radio in one hand while his other hand rested on his hip. Just over the holster, Sherlock knew he wore under his coat.    


Sherlock nodded and slid out of the car, noticing that Donovan and Beckett were already halfway up the closest driveway. Parked just in front of Greg’s car was a beat up utility van. He nodded once more and took a deep breath. Together they headed for the van, Sherlock just hoped they were doing the right thing.

***

**Time since John went missing:** 1 day, 14 hours, 45 minutes  
**Saturday Morning:** 0815

John’s stomach ached and his ration of water was long gone. Despite that, he wasn’t eager to see West again. He’d fought sleep most of the night, afraid to be caught unprepared by the madman. While he assumed the door would wake him, he wasn’t willing to chance it and had set his alarm on his watch for twenty-minute intervals. The precaution hadn’t been necessary, in the end, the exhaustion dragging him down only seemed to make his hunger and thirst more pronounced. 

He was just turning the alarm off on his watch when the abrasive sound of stone scraping against stone filled his tiny cell. Pulling his torn sleeve down over his watch to hide the glow, he slumped against the wall and pretended to be asleep. Hoping that, if he appeared asleep, West would say or do something that could provide him with any bit of information he could use. 

_ “Lull them into a false sense of security if you have to. Make them believe you’re their friend.”  _ The voice of his instructor echoed through his memories. At the time, John had scoffed, thinking that no one in their right mind would fall for such an obvious trick. But now, seeing how unhinged West was, he thought it might be his best option.  _ That, or get him so angry he attacks me. Had to hand, I shouldn’t have a problem beating him. _

Once the door was opened, John forced himself to lay still. Every instinct was screaming at him, telling him to make a break for it, to run. John knew better, though, he knew that regardless of what had caused West’s hands to shake the previous day, he would not be able to outrun a bullet. Plus, he hadn’t seen much of the room beyond his, for all he knew he could be running into closed quarters. West’s quarters, judging by the ever-present sound of him singing in the next room, and that meant guns. _ Lots of guns. And while I could grab one, I have no guarantee they’ll all be loaded, and what then?  _

West sniffed, then the sound of a gun being cocked echoed along the stone walls. Still, John kept control of his breathing and somehow managed to keep his eyes from fluttering open. Something thudded dully beside him though, and he startled. Pretending to have just woken up, he groaned and held a hand over his face, blocking the light from his eyes.

“What…” he groaned and looked to his left to see a sandwich laying beside his legs. “I wanted eggs and bacon…”

“You’ll eat what I get you, or nothing at all,” West snarled, “doesn’t matter to me if you don’t eat. Though I like it when they fight back.”

_ I’m sure you do. _ John suppressed a shudder and, while still blocking the light with one hand, reached for the sandwich, pulling it closer towards him as if West might rescind his offer of food.

Lowering his hand, John winced as the light from the next room made his eyes water.  _ This light sensitivity is impeding my chances... If I can see past his dark silhouette into that room, maybe I can spot a way out. _

West snorted at his apparent discomfort, then two more water bottles were tossed inside the cell.

“No chance in a cuppa? Coffee? Something with caffeine, or even sugar?” John tried not to sound too hopeful, but a diet consisting of a single ham sandwich and thirty-three ounces of water would not be conducive for a late-game escape. He figured he had three more days, four at most before the lack of nutrition began slowing him down. And that was contingent on West continuing with feeding him over the next few days. For all John knew, the food and water he had with him now, could be his last. 

West said nothing and for a moment only the sound of water dripping down the wall filled the room. 

“No pillory, no chains, no broken bones… you’ve lost your touch,  _ Pierce. _ ” John broke the silence then hoped he hadn’t done the wrong thing by egging his captor on. He knew he was walking on the edge of a knife, and that testing West had the potential to backfire. But after a day and a half of sitting alone in the darkness, he needed to push West to act. Something had to change, and if West came for him, he was ready. 

“Keep joking, see where that gets you.” Barked his captor as he raised one of his hands. Though his vision was blurry there was no mistaking the outline of the gun in West’s hands. 

Instinctively, John froze, and while something told him that if West wanted to shoot him, he would have done it by now. The more rational part of his brain told him there was no logic in antagonizing a man holding a gun.  _ But what  _ **_is_ ** _ he going to do with me? If not just keep me locked up in here until I starve, or die of old age.  _

“Your time will come, just you wait,” West said as if he’d been able to hear John’s thoughts. “This visit wasn’t just to feed you. I also wanted to tell you something that should make your stay a little more... “ West laughed, a small harsh laugh that echoed against the stone and reminded John of the broken laughs he’d heard on the battlefield from dying men.  _ That’s the laugh of a man who’s lost his touch on reality… _

“Your little boyfriend has been busy.”

At the mention of Sherlock, John’s heart all but stopped beating in his chest. Forgetting that he’d wanted to play the role of docile captive, he pushed himself up to his feet and balled his hands into fists.  _ Boyfriend… he knows about Sherlock and I. What if he goes after Sherlock next? What if he kills Sherlock?  _

Thoughts raced through John’s mind, and suddenly he realized his time as West’s captive needed to end. If West decided that going after Sherlock was the best way to hurt him, he would do so without hesitation. Unclenching one hand, he flexed his fingers, willing strength into them. 

_ Go for the syringe, dive, roll, stab him. Make it quick, and he might not get a shot off.  _

“What’s his name… strange name… starts with an S.” West mused in a morbidly amused tone. “Sherlock, that’s right! Well, he’s just outside, traipsing about with two other men.”

_ Two other men? Who’s with him? God, please let it be Lestrade, he’ll keep him safe.  _

“Tell me, Johnny, does he know who I am and what I can do? Does he know he’s well within range? I could take him out, one bullet from Enyo and he’d be reduced to strawberry jam.”

“Enyo?” John asked. Confusion and fear made his blood run cold, and his fingers felt like icicles. 

“My newest girl,” West said as if that cleared up the matter. Which, for John, it did, though John wasn’t sure if West knew that or not. It had been no secret on base that West had a habit of naming his weapons after females. There had even been a rumor around camp that West slept with his gun, and not just under his pillow. 

Calculating the distance between himself and West, he decided the chances of reaching his assailant without sporting a couple of new bullet holes was slim. While he was no coward, John knew he was more useful to Sherlock alive. He also knew his chances of escape were a lot higher if he wasn’t wounded. So he forced himself to remain where he stood and gritted his teeth. 

“This is between you and me, Pierce. If you want to drag anyone else into this messed up scenario, it would be Sholto. Sherlock has friends in high places. Going after him means you have the entire MET and Homeland security after you.”

Let them come. It won't do them any good. I’ve taken precautions.” West said, and John’s eyes had adjusted to the light well enough that he was able to make out the sadistic grin plastered on his face. 

Between the crazed expression and the way the orange glow from the lanterns glinted in his eyes, it left John feeling even more unsettled.  _ Precautions?... what kind of precautions.  _

Before John got a chance to ask West what he’d meant, the hand not holding the gun reached for the door. In the moments before the door started closing, a glint of light on metal highlighted the ring on West’s hand. While he couldn’t be certain, something told John it was his ring. The thought of West wearing his engagement ring infuriated him. 

_ No one, and I mean no one… gets away with stealing my ring. _

John lost his grip on his composure and lunged towards the rapidly closing door. He reached it just as the last crack of light disappeared. Pounding his fists against the back of the door he began howling West’s name, screaming at him to give the ring back. Soon his knuckles were as raw as his throat, and tears stung his eyes. 

Defeated, he fell to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. He felt violated. Not only from being kidnapped but the knowledge that West knew Sherlock was more than his flatmate. 

_ He must have been watching us, that day we went for a walk through Regent’s Park. And spying on us in the flat.  _

After a day and a half of being strong, and not letting stress get to him, John finally broke down. Sitting there hugging his knees, he silently pleaded with Sherlock to go away and get somewhere safe. 

_ Please, Sherlock… go away. I’m not worth it. I’m going to die here, and I don’t want to take you with me. Please, god… just go home. God… I  _ **_am_ ** _ going to die here, aren’t I? _

  
  


***

**Time since John went missing:** 1 day, 17 hours, 10 minutes  
**Saturday Morning:** 1040

“That was Donovan,” Greg said as he placed his mobile back in his pocket. “They’ve had a bit more luck than we have. Between the two of them, they have nearly ninety hours of video footage for the Yard to go through.”   
  
“Anything else?” Sherlock panted out as he navigated over a pile of cinder blocks. They’d investigated three of the five warehouses, and just two hours of physical exertion had left him tired and cranky. So far all they’d managed to find was a hoard of empty spray paint cans, empty bottles, and abandoned needles. Clear signs that the local kids  _ had _ used this spot for parties at one point. Though judging by the thick layer of dust over everything, the partying hadn’t been done recently. 

“Yeah, actually. Donovan said the house closest to hear claims they heard gunshots a few weeks back. They never called it in, though. I guess they get all sorts down here, thought it was kids setting off fireworks.”

“Well, I haven’t seen evidence of fireworks…” Sherlock grumbled, wondering how people could mistake gunfire for fireworks. He climbed to the highest point in the pile and looked around the seemingly abandoned lot. In two hours they’d scouted three of the five buildings, and they were nearly done with the fourth. From his vantage point, he could see the river clearly, to his left was the warehouse they’d just inspected. To his right, on the other side of the fourth building was the fifth and final building.  _ They must be there… This can’t be a dead-end, all the clues lead to here! _

“Let’s head over to number five?” Impatient to get on with it, he clambered down from the pile of loose stones and rounded the corner of the building. Greg and Mycroft’s agent followed close on his heels. Unlike the others, which were only separated by a narrow road just wide enough for a car, warehouse number five was set back over a large lot. Sherlock stopped at the edge of the building and waited for the other men to catch up.

“This is the part that bothers me…” Sherlock muttered as he leaned around the corner of the building and inspected the large car park that separated them from the last building. “That building there,” he pointed to the fifth and final warehouse, “perfect setup for a sniper.”   
  
“Yeah…He could be in any of those windows, and we wouldn’t know until it's too late.” Agreed Greg, “We’d have to cross this wide expanse. We’d be sitting ducks.”

“I’ll go.” Sherlock decided after a moment’s hesitation.. He caught Greg’s eye and waited for the D. I. to object. However, instead of stopping him, Greg just gave a single nod. They shared a look that said  _ For John. _ Before Mycroft’s man had time to voice his opinion or stop him, Sherlock swallowed down his fear and stepped around the edge of the building. 

He stepped into the open landscape, leaving what little safety the buildings had provided, and could help but feel like he was being watched. Every step across the car park felt like a step closer to his own death. The feeling was all too familiar and weight like an elephant sitting on him threatened to buckle his knees. Flashes of Serbia, and the covert operations before that nearly blocked out his destination. 

_ Keep it together… if only for John… _

The urge to stop and simply breathe was great. Sherlock’s legs felt as if they’d become lead, but he forced one foot in front of the other and continued on with his mission.

_ Just like in Croatia, just keep moving forward. The more you move, the less change danger has of finding you.  _

As soon as he reached the edge of the last warehouse, Sherlock heaved out a sigh of relief. _ You’re in one piece, get it together… _ Sherlock looked back at where Greg and Mycroft’s agent stood. As he looked across the distance, realizing how far he’d gone without getting shot, his head began to swim. Bending forward and placing his hands on his knees he tried to even out his rapid breathing. 

Once his heart rate had gone back to normal, and his breathing a bit steadier, he pulled out his mobile and sent Greg a single thumbs-up emoji. 

_ Stop dilly-dallying and explore… _

Kicking himself into motion he decided to walk towards the river and the back of the building. If it was anything like the rest of the buildings, it would be a loading dock, a door, and a handful of small windows. 

_ Good enough place to start. Standing here won't get us anywhere, and it doesn’t help John. _

Before leaving his spot against the wall, however, Sherlock took a precautionary glance along the wall. He inspected each window on both floors. Some of the tension left his shoulders when all windows appeared, from his position, sniper free.

He stuck close to the edge of the wall. The windows on this side were all boarded up, so he wasn’t overly worried about danger lurking behind them, but every time he came to one of the large windows he would stop and listen for any sounds within. All remained silent, save for the sounds of the river, and a far off barge blaring its horn. 

_ Is anything different?  _ He asked himself as he came to the back corner of the building.  _ The windows. The windows on the other buildings were broken or mostly uncovered. Some had boards where large portions of glass had been broken in, but this whole wall has been boarded up. Someone had taken time to ensure that seeing inside would be difficult…  _

Sherlock felt a tiny spark of hope kindle deep inside his heart. With renewed vigor, he rounded the corner and took in the back of the building. Logistically, it was identical to the other four, however, he noticed a few small differences upon closer inspection. 

Like the other buildings, there was a set of concrete stairs leading to a back door. The door, like the others, was metal and covered in rust. Unlike the others, the hinges that held the door in place were shiny and new. Not a speck of rust was visible on them. As he took a few cautious steps towards the door, a scrap of dirty maroon fabric at the base of the stairs caught his attention. 

With his heart pounding in his chest drawing out all other sounds, he hurried towards it. He reached out as if to touch it, but at the last second thought better of it. Pulling his mobile out once again, he snapped a few pictures of the scrap, and the door, and shot them off to Greg.

**_John was wearing a shirt of that exact color. Door shows signs of frequent use. He’s here. -SH_ **

He knew that Greg would have preferred the fabric go untouched until forensics could process it. But his heart yearned for John, to be close to him again. There was no doubt in his mind that it had been part of John’s shirt. So he scooped it up and held the tiny fragment in his hand. 

_ John… _ a single tear slipped down his face as he stood up and inspected the building with renewed interest.  _ Where are you?  _

The sound of the river returned to his senses as he inspected the fabric. His mobile buzzed, and he tore his eyes off of the tiny piece of John to read Greg’s text.

**If we have proof, get out of there.**

He was ready to comply, but his eyes caught sight of the text he’d sent the night before, the one with his GPS coordinates. 

_ GPS… John’s signal is still dead. West probably still has the jammer activated. If so, and if I’m close, I shouldn’t be able to access my location…  _

With a trembling hand, he swapped from the messaging app to Apple Maps. The map attempted to load, but after several seconds an error message popped up declaring GPS signal lost. 

_ I should have thought of this sooner…  _ Emboldened by the discovery, he forgot he had been about to retreat.  _ If I walk around the building, I can pinpoint where the jammer is by figuring out where I gain or lose GPS signal… _

Without pausing to tell Greg of his discovery, Sherlock took off towards the other side of the building. Rounding the furthest corner, he paused dead in his tracks. He didn’t need a failed GPS signal to pinpoint where John was being held. The first quarter of the building was void of windows. Up until now, all five buildings had been built to be identical, but here this building varied. 

Sherlock ran a hand over the bricks and felt a grin spread over his face. Where the windows were on the other buildings, here there was brickwork fresher than the rest of the building. Someone, and some time ago judging by the wear on the wall, hand bricked in the windows on this corner. 

_ Found you… But what is here?  _

Sherlock closed his eyes and sorted through the files he had on old warehouses. A folder marked “Smugglers and the Thames” caught his attention, and after a brief refresher, he understood. 

_ You were a smuggler's office. There’s probably a secret room right… here…  _ he patted the wall by the corner.  _ Is that where West has you?  _

The sound of feet crunching on stone makes him whirl around. He reached for John’s gun, which he’d hidden under his clothes. But before he had a chance to draw it, Mycroft's minion rounded the corner, his own gun drawn. Sherlock spat out a curse then rolled his eyes. 

“You don’t just sneak up on someone!” He snarled. 

“Sorry sir, but I have orders not to let you out of my sight,” the agent said as he approached. 

“Explains why you’ve been hovering all day,” Sherlock muttered, then motioned at the section of wall with no windows. “Tell Mycroft I want a team here by the end of the day, and John home by supper.” Emotion welled up inside him at the thought of John back in 221B, sitting in his armchair. Not wanting to be seen crying, Sherlock turned his back to the man and ran his hand along the wall, wishing instead he could reach out and touch his partner.

_ John… I’m here. Please, just hang on a little longer.  _

He and the agent both jumped, startled as a scream split the still air. Sherlock’s head snapped up to the window above them, trying to judge where the sound had come from. Forgetting the threat of the bombs, Sherlock made to run for the door in the back of the building. But Mycroft’s agent shoved him against the wall with one hand, while his eyes darted around searching for any signs of danger.

“The wall, sir. We need to get to the wall.”   
  
Sherlock looked past the man and spotted the high wall just to their left. Similar to the wall on the other side of the compound there was a portion of the wall that had crumbled down to knee height. If they could make it across that section, and duck behind the taller portions it would provide adequate cover. 

Before Sherlock had time to make a run for it, a second cry reached his ears. This time he heard it for what it was, John screaming his name.  _ Why? Because he knows I’m in danger…  _

“John…” he shouted back before a hand clamped over his mouth. 

“Run, Mr. Holmes.” The agent hissed, then removed his hand from Sherlock’s mouth. “And do so quietly. Now  _ go! _ ” 

Encouraged by a shove against his back, Sherlock lurched forward and headed for the wall. They managed to make it halfway to the wall before the sound of a gunshot ripped through the barren lot. Startled by the noise his toe caught on a bit of rebar and he stumbled. A strong hand gripped the back of his collar and pulled him upright, causing a jolt of pain to course down his body. Sherlock ignored the pain and kept running. 

A second shot split the air and there was a grunt behind him. Sherlock turned to see if the other man had been shot. Though he wore a pained expression on his face, he waved Sherlock on and together they closed the gap between themselves and the safety of the wall. 

Sherlock reached the wall first and dove headfirst over it. He tucked his body in and landed in a controlled roll. His left shoulder took the brunt of the impact and he let out a pained cry. Knowing he was still in the line of fire, he picked himself up off the ground, gripped his injured shoulder, and hurried over towards the taller section of the wall at a low crouch. 

The agent dove over the wall in the same fashion, just as a third gunshot rang out. Though injured, the man landed with far more grace than Sherlock had managed, and was soon resting with his back against the wall just to Sherlock’s immediate left. 

“Alright,” he asked, turning towards the agent. The man’s face was grey and his face was twisted in pain, but he smiled grimly and nodded. 

“Vest did its job, but he got me in the leg. I’ll be fine,” the man replied then set about tearing off a strip of his shirt to use as a tourniquet. “You alright?”

“Shoulder hurts, but that’s an older wound. I’ll be fine also.” Sherlock rolled his left shoulder and winced.

“Good, call Lestrade, tell him to get the van and bring it as close to us as he can. If we walk along the outer edge of this wall, we should meet him shortly.”

Sherlock and the agent, Hal Morgan he learned, began the slow trudge along the wall. They followed a small footpath, which Sherlock realized had probably been made by West, and within a half-hour met up with Greg. Once Hal was stationed in the back of the van, Greg informed them that he’d called in an ambulance, the Yard, and informed Mycroft that they’d need a team to secure the riverfront as well.

Sherlock nodded, then walked around to the front of the van. Placing his hands on the hood of the car he leaned forward and let out a roar of frustration. The urge to punch the hood was so strong that Sherlock had to turn around and stand with his hips pressed against the car for support and his hands folded across his chest. As much as he wanted to expel his pent up anger, he didn’t need Mycroft sending him a bill for bodywork on a government vehicle. 

“John is there… I heard him,” he said softly as Greg came around to stand beside him.

Greg nodded and chewed on his bottom lip. After a moment, he reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Instead of pulling away from the touch like he might have done in the past, Sherlock leaned into the warm hand. Through John, he had learned just how powerful physical touches could be, and he was surprised to find himself craving it. Before he could control himself tears sprang up in his eyes, leaving wet tracks down his cheeks that grew cold from the wind. A wet sob wrenched its way from his throat as John's cry echoed through his mind. 

"John..." He choked out, turning towards Greg and throwing his arms around his shoulders. He held on as tight as his exhausted body allowed and for the second time that day gave into the tears. Greg held him gently, aware as he was of Sherlock's physical condition. 

“We’re so close…” he choked out, his tears wetting the fabric on Greg’s shoulder, “yet I feel more helpless than I did this morning.” Sherlock sniffed, then replayed the sounds of John’s warning. “John warned me… If he hadn’t shouted, Hal might be dead… I might be dead. I was too wrapped up in finding West’s hiding place.”

“We know where he is, Sherlock,” Greg said softly as he carefully patted the space between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Mycroft will have this place surrounded within the hour. We’re one step closer to getting your fiance back.” 

“Why am I crying…” Sherlock whispered, still unable to pull himself from Greg’s embrace.

“Because you’re human, Sherlock. You’re hurt, angry, afraid, worried. You’re feeling all the normal emotions that go along with losing a loved one. And you’re doing an admirable job. Most people break down and can’t function, yet here you are.” As Greg trailed off the faint sound of a siren reached their ears. Sherlock took a step back, letting his hands slide off of Greg’s shoulders. Greg let one hand linger on his shoulder and held Sherlock’s gaze for a long moment. “We’ll get him back, we have too, we’ve come this close.” 

“Yeah...” Sherlock nodded then wiped the tears away from his face. “And I’m not going anywhere until we do.” 

  
  


***

**Time since John went missing:** 1 day, 17 hours, 10 minutes  
**Saturday Morning:** 1040

  
  


The past two and a half hours had been as close to torture as John had ever experienced. Knowing his fiance was near, and possibly walking into a trap had sent him pacing around the cell until he’d grown dizzy. Seething, John sat down with his back against the door and broke off half of the sandwich. Putting the other half aside for later, he took small bites and reminded himself that he needed to conserve his energy.

_ If it wasn’t bad enough that I’m stuck in here, at the mercy of that asshole… Now Sherlock is out there looking for me. If he gets too close, what will West do? As long as I can hear West, that means he isn't going after Sherlock.  _

Thoughts of scenarios which all ended with Sherlock bleeding out swirled through his mind. Perhaps it was due to his other senses growing more heightened due to the prolonged darkness, or perhaps it was simply insanity finally setting in. Whatever the cause, the image of Sherlock broken and bloodied on the pavement beside Bart’s floated before his vision. The projection did nothing to alleviate his concerns, and soon John had tears streaming down his face as he paced about.

A change in the next room made John stop in his tracks. Silence washed over him and made his blood run cold.  _ West stopped singing….  _ Moving quietly, John pressed his ear to the door and listened hard to the sounds in the other room. He could just make out the sound of something heavy, a door he assumed, scraping open. The knot in the pit of John’s stomach tightened, then began to writhe as he considered what that could mean. 

_ He’s gone after Sherlock.  _

“ **Sherlock!** ” he ran to the other wall and shouted as loud as he could, cupping his hands around his mouth to help the shout carry. All that mattered in that moment was warning Sherlock. His life meant nothing if Sherlock was dead.  _ I’ve lost you before, you bastard, I won't lose you again!  _ “ **Sherlock!!** ” he shouted once more, praying that he was loud enough and Sherlock close enough. John’s heart skipped a beat when a faint reply reached his ears. 

_ Sherlock’s voice… _

But before John had time to take joy in hearing that call,  three gunshots ripped metaphorical holes in John’s chest. It didn’t take a mind like Sherlock Holmes to picture the scene. West, hidden inside the building, shooting at pesky intruders wandering around outside. One of those intruders was the man that John loved more than oxygen. 

John screamed Sherlock’s name for a third time, pounding his fists against the wall until he was certain they were bloody. He sank to his knees, pressing his head against the stones, his palms flat against the wall.  _ Sherlock… my love. Don’t be dead… oh god, don’t be dead. _   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like chocolate for me. I honestly LOVE them. This particular story has gotten very little feedback. I know a lot of Johnlock readers don't read until the story is complete, so maybe that is why? But I'm starting to feel unmotivated due to lack of interest. (Hence the break) 
> 
> I will continue, obviously, as the story is almost finished. But compared to the first installment this story seems to be a dud.. :( 
> 
> In other news, the cover art has made progress, I got to see the WIPs today and I love them! Hopefully, in the next week, I'll be able to put the first story up on lulu.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View notes below for news!

**Time since John went missing:** 2 days, 19 hours, 17 minutes  
 **Sunday Afternoon:** 1247

Cold had long since seeped into John’s very marrow. Somewhere in the early hours of morning, the temperature had dropped and an unpleasant dampness had settled over him. To keep himself from going completely numb with cold, John had set the alarm on his clock for every hour. When it went off, he would force himself into a standing position and at the very least do a few stretches and stamp his feet back to life.

 _What I would do for a blanket and a toothbrush right now._ John groaned inwardly, sitting back down after stretching his cold body. He ran his tongue over his teeth and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Plaque clung to the enamel and he had to fight the urge to sit there and scrape it off with his fingernail. _There’s no knowing how filthy my hands are._ He did his best to pick out bigger chunks of bread from between his teeth with his tongue. 

The second sandwich West had given him yesterday was long gone and West hadn’t come for another _visit_ since then. Hours ago, John had given up hoping for a third meal and had given into despairing that West was done keeping him alive with food. The thought made his already angry stomach knot up with anxiety and anger.

_I should have jumped him yesterday when I had the chance. Somehow, I have to get him to open that door one more time if I’m to get the hell out of here._

John sat there in darkness, doing his best to drown out West’s singing from the other room. He needed to focus, to form a plan that would both get West to open the door, and allow him to overpower the other man while in his food-deprived weakened state.   
  
“For the love of god! SHUT UP!” John shouted angrily at the far wall. West had been singing non-stop for what felt like hours, and his stupid re-worded nursery rhyme was now stuck in John’s head like a relentless earworm. Every time John tried to think of a plan, the verses echoed mockingly in his mind. 

_Step step, jump jump  
_ _Over the cords you go  
_ _Jump sir, jump sir,  
_ _Or it'll blow._

 _One little left turn  
_ _One little right  
_ _Run through the rubble  
_ _Straight down the center, or it'll bite._

_Step step, skip skip  
_ _Run to the window  
_ _Straight sir, straight sir,  
_ _Run till you hit indigo_

_One more left turn,  
_ _Run to the boards  
_ _Then one hard right turn  
_ _You're almost at the door_

_Care now, young sir  
_ _Can you see the floor?  
_ _Side step, side step  
_ _Now you're at the door._

_Boards and door doesn’t even rhyme… fuck him._ John grumbled leaning his head against the cold wall. Hunger made John’s stomach ache, but there was nothing he could do about that so he pushed it aside and attempted to forget the cursed song. 

_If I can’t get out of here, I won't know how Sherlock is… if he’s alive, injured, or if somehow West missed. So first things first, how to get the hell out of this crypt. Think, John… think. What do you know about West?_

_West has a temper._

_He hates it when people contradict him._

_He has a damaged nerve on the inside of his upper right arm. Useful, if I can get close enough._

_He is uncoordinated, so much of his skill comes from the ability to remain still for so long, waiting for the perfect shot._

_He hates bodily waste…_

_Oh…_ John sat up and scrubbed at his eyes. _That might just work…_

The bare bones of a plan began to form, elating John so much that he allowed himself to have the last two sips of water he’d reserved. The plan required a small amount of preparation, so he pushed himself into a standing position, waited for the wave of dizziness to pass then set to work. 

Once everything was in place, John was then faced with the first (and largest) obstacle of how to get West to open the door. He didn’t want to wait and hope that West would eventually toss him food or water. Time was not his friend right now, the sooner he acted, the easier this would be. With every passing hour, he grew more dehydrated and his chances became more slim.

_I bet, if I can somehow get him angry enough, he’d open the door and confront me. But how? I hardly have the strength to stand there and pound on the wall until he becomes annoyed. So what else?_

John slumped against the wall and instantly regretted it. What little body warmth he had seemed to vanish as the cold stones sent chills down his spine. He was too tired to move, however, and wanted to conserve as much of his energy as he could for when (not if) he confronted West one final time. 

_The biggest issue with getting him angry, is it could backfire. Instead of coming in and shouting at me to shut up, or something similar. He could come in guns blazing, shoot first, then silence me. He’s volatile, and unpredictable. But that is a risk I’ll have to take._

_What do I know about him now? He's far more unstable than he was when we served together. His hands are shaking, but without proper time to study him, I couldn't possibly diagnose him._

_Still... if I bring up incompetence… that might be enough to get him in here. Either I get the hell out of here, or he shoots me out of rage. I won't know which until I try, and honestly, either outcome is fine with me._

It wasn’t that John wanted to die. But the thought of spending any more time than needed as West’s prisoner urged him to not focus on the major consequences. He wasn’t naive enough to believe for an instant that West would simply let him go. His options were: Escape or die under West’s power. And as dying by West’s hand had a high probability of being death by torture, John wasn’t keen on sticking around.

Despite the desire to hurry up and escape, John forced himself to spend ten minutes sitting while pressing the mini torch’s power button. The last two times West had opened the door, the stark difference from pitch darkness to soft light had made his eyes hurt and his vision go blurry. While he wasn’t worried about sun blindness, he knew from experiencing the bright desert sun that having his vision impaired would do nothing to aid his attempt. 

He wasn’t certain if the blue light coming from the torch would do much good, but it was all he had. And it gave him time to think of exactly what he wanted to shout at West. After ten minutes was up, he undid one of his kevlar shoelaces and wrapped one end around the palm of his left hand. If he could get his hands on West, he could pull the other end tight around West’s neck and strangle him. 

Next, he opened the compartment on his belt, took out the syringe, and carefully stuck the plunger end under his sleeve against the underside of his wrist. He didn’t like how precarious a position it was, but it was his best option to conceal it, while keeping it handy. He wasn’t sure if he would have time to fumble with the latch on his belt, once West had the door opened. 

Gathering what little strength he had in him, he stood on shaky legs and walked over to the door. There he assumed he was as close to West as he could get. Which meant there was a far better chance his words would carry through the wall. 

“Oi! West!” He shouted, then had to brace himself with a palm against the wall as a wave of dizziness overcame him. _Steady, Watson…_ “When is the torture going to start? I’m getting bored in here.” 

He heard a sound on the other side of the wall and held his breath. Something, or someone, shifted on what John assumed was furniture, and the ceaseless singing abruptly stopped. _Oh… do I have your attention now?_

John spent the next few minutes shouting at West through the wall. He started small, by giving West ideas on ways to torture him. “Could come in here and rip off my fingernails, one by one! Better yet, cigarette burns… I know that was one of your favorites. But something tells me you _can’t_ .”   
  
Closing his eyes he counted to twenty, long enough for West to process what he’d said, but not long enough for him to formulate a full retaliation. 

“I know as well as anyone else, how much you enjoy hurting people.” John continued to shout, he was aware that there was a chance only half his words were carrying through the wall. But that didn’t matter, all that mattered was that West got the gist of what he was saying. “But you haven't touched me! Why? Not up to it? Gone squeamish? West’s gone soooofffttt.” he sang the last bit, drawing out soft in a mocking tone.

John kept at it for what felt like hours, though he knew it had to be less than five minutes. By the time the familiar sound of the door grinding open filled his tiny chamber, his already dry throat felt like sandpaper and his voice had begun to crack. However, he didn’t have time to register his discomfort. 

Once the door began moving John rushed to his predetermined spot against the sidewall. He stood where he’d be mostly out of sight, blocked by the door itself. The door opened the gap going from two inches to two feet in the same amount of time it took him to pick up the bucket that had served as his toilet. He held it close to the bottom and silently willed his hands to stop shaking. _You’ve got one shot at this, Watson. Don’t mess it up._

An eternity seemed to pass before the door stopped moving. When it was open wide enough for John to walk through without his shoulders brushing stone he let himself breathe a small sigh of relief. If West had wanted to kill him out of anger, then he would have only had to open the door wide enough to stick a gun through. This meant, to John, that West wanted to confront him. Either to scare him or to begin the long-awaited torture.

West said something so loud that his voice bounced off the stone walls, but John didn’t bother to listen to what he’d said. Instead, he bit his bottom lip and waited for the right moment to act. West didn’t make him wait long. As soon as the first portion of West’s body, an arm, was visible John lunged into action. Fueled by adrenaline and desperation, he closed the gap between them before West had time to act. He rounded the door, then came up sharp less than two feet away from West. With a twisted grin, John held up the bucket and whispered, “Catch.” 

John savored the way West’s face went from confusion to horror as he tossed the bucket, open end first, directly at West’s chest. John had less than a second to act, and he knew it. While West struggled between catching the bucket or flinching away from it, John stepped into his personal space and shot out his right fist in a sharp uppercut straight into West’s jaw. 

West staggered back as the bucket bounced off his body, sending the contents sloshing over the front of his shirt. West howled in rage and pain, then with an angry gleam turned his focus on John.

“You little…” he roared, blinding swinging a fist out towards John. Expecting the retaliation, John ducked to the left and swung again, this time aiming for the damaged nerve in the meat of West’s right bicep. While his fist hit flesh, he missed the spot he’d been aiming for. As he withdrew his arm, West managed to catch hold of his wrist. West let out a sharp laugh and his expression changed from rage to contempt. He sneered over at John, who stood there with a calm smile on his face.

“Did you forget, Pierce?” John asked cooly, “I’m left handed,” then with a quick movement, he palmed the syringe, taking care not to prick himself. With one quick motion, he sunk the syringe into West’s exposed side and depressed the plunger. He yanked his right hand free, dropped the syringe to the floor, and slammed his fist into West’s cheek as hard as he could manage. 

While West was still staggering from the blow, he slipped behind him and using his left arm pulled West into a headlock. His adversary's hands shot up, nails dug into his arms through his shirt as his former colleague tried to claw his way free. When he finally caught on that John had no intention of letting go, he changed tactics. 

West’s elbow plowed sharply into John’s rib cage three times in quick succession. John nearly lost his grip on West’s neck and only years of training allowed him to hold tight. He heard something crack and felt pain flare across his chest. He let out a roar and in a final act of desperation reached for West’s ear with his teeth. He bit down as hard as he dared. He ducked his head back as quickly as he could and snarled over West’s cry of pain, “go to sleep, asshole.” moments before West’s body finally went limp both from lack of oxygen and the drug that was now coursing through his veins. 

West’s body soon became deadweight that he was unable to support. They crashed to the ground together. John knelt there panting, leaning against West’s still form for support. “Fuck you…” he said, releasing the pressure on West’s neck and taking his head between both hands. Without stopping to weigh the consequences John closed his eyes and gave West’s head a sharp twist. He both felt and heard the bones and cartilage snap, and once he was certain West no longer had a pulse he gave the body a shove, watching as it fell limply to the floor. 

“Now you can’t hurt Sherlock,” he said as he pulled himself to his feet. “You wouldn’t have just let me go. We both knew it would come down to one of us dead.” 

With the adrenaline beginning to wear off, and soon John was reminded of how cold and tired he was. He stood there shivering from head to toe, looming over West’s dead body and wishing he could curl up into a ball in front of a hot fire. 

“Ensure you are no longer in danger, Waston,” he told himself, “then rest before getting the hell out of here.”

He knew that West would have planned on being holed up for days, if not longer, and he would have taken the precaution of storing food and water. So, his first course of action, once he had a look around and saw nothing that threatened his well-being, was finding food. 

This new room was larger than his cell, though it was obviously not by much. As he looked around, he realized that the room he stood in now and his cell, and likely been the same room at one time. But someone had bricked off a small square in the left hand corner. The area just to the right of his cell had been turned into a sort of sleeping nook. Pressed against the wall to the cell was a cot reminisce of his army days, in the far right hand corner was an old beat-up chair and a small nightstand. On the cot lay a book on explosives and a large sniper rifle. 

The other half of the room held a small portable toilet, an old wardrobe, a table full of bullets, and other gun paraphernalia. Off along one wall was a large rectangle door as tall as the room. It was plane steel, with a metal wheel directly in the center. Behind the wheel was an arrow pointing which way to twist to open. John had seen enough movies to recognize the door as the inside of a vault. 

_What the hell? Am I in some abandoned bank?_ He looked around more, searching for any clues that might help him piece together his location. What looked like every inch of wall was covered in rack after rack ladened down with guns of varying types. John was struck by the vast wealth West must have spent to obtain each gun, until he realized West would have simply stolen them rather than purchase. 

After a quick glance around, and peeking under the cot, John hadn’t found any food or water. He stumbled over to the wardrobe and threw both doors open. The left half of the wardrobe, to his delight, was stocked with cans and boxes of food and an entire case of water bottles. The right half had a few articles of clothing folded on the shelves. John looked down at his own clothes and grimaced. In his struggle with West, he’d managed to get some of his own excrement on his front. 

Before changing, however, he stuffed his hand into a box , and withdrew a handful of small bite-sized cheese crackers. He stuffed them into his mouth and let out a delighted moan as he began to chew. His dry mouth made swallowing difficult, so he grabbed a bottle of water and downed half the contents in one gulp. Water overflowed out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin and the remainder of the cheeser crackers turned to paste in his mouth, but John didn’t mind. He finished the water, tossed the empty bottle onto the ground, then began stripping out of his soiled clothing. 

He grabbed random pieces of clothing from the shelves until he’d found a shirt and trousers that looked like they’d fit. The shirt was a black turtleneck that was thankfully quite warm, and the jeans while a bit snug were at least cleaner than what he’d been wearing. 

Slightly refreshed, John turned to look at West’s body. It was then that he remembered West had stolen his ring, so he knelt down and lifted up West’s hand. Sure enough, he found his silver band and yanked it free. 

“That would be mine, you prick.” John muttered, “That’s the last time you steal from me.” He placed the ring back on his right ring finger, then brought the metal band up to his lips. “What to do with you…” he mused, staring down at his former captor.

In the end, John decided he didn’t want to stare at West’s body any longer than he had to. While he wanted nothing more than to never enter his cell again, he grabbed both of West’s writs and went inside one more time, this time dragging West with him. Once West’s legs had cleared the door, he dropped his arms and left the cell for what he hoped would be the last time. 

West, or someone else, had attached a handle to the stone wall, which allowed John to pull the door shut easily. Once West was locked away, John sighed and fought with the warring urges to sleep, and finish escaping.

“I’ll be dead on my feet, possibly unable to spot a booby trap. He can’t hurt me anymore…”

Deciding sleep was the smartest course, he shuffled over to West’s cot, removed the rifle, pulled back the blankets, and unceremoniously collapsed. He pulled the blankets up tightly around his chin and lay there basking in the warmth they offered. Once he’d stopped shivering, he drifted off into a peaceful sleep for the first time in two days. 

***

**Time since John went missing:** 2 days, 22 hours, 40 minutes  
 **Sunday Afternoon:** 1610

Nearly a day and a half had passed since Sherlock and Hal had been shot at. In that time he’d only left the immediate area once, and that was only because Mycroft refused to allow Sholto outside of his office where he was being held in custody. As soon as Sherlock was done grilling Sholto on any new information he could gather, he’d gone to Baker Street to change into fresh clothing. Mrs. Hudson had caught him, just as he was attempting to sneak out unnoticed, and forced him to sit down and eat a meal before he was allowed to return to the warehouses. 

Due to fear of West and his sniping ability, Mycroft had ordered him to maintain his distance from the warehouse that held John. At first, Sherlock had no inclination to obey such an order, but when Greg had pulled him aside and explained how devastated John would be if he escaped just to find Sherlock in a body bag he decided to listen. 

Another stipulation for standing out in the open, like he was now, had been the clear riot shield he now held in front of him and the bulletproof vest. Mycroft had wanted him to wear full riot gear, but Sherlock drew the line at the shield and vest. 

Which is how Sherlock came to be standing in the rain in the furthest spot that allowed a clear view of the side door. Rain pelted down around him, soaking his Belstaff and making his hair stick to his head. But for once, the rain did not bother him. Neither did the cold that made holding the riot shield upright difficult. He didn’t rejoice in the minor development in his recovery, because he didn’t matter. All that mattered was John, and the man holding him captive. 

Sherlock took his eyes off the door for a brief moment and surveyed the area. In two days, both the Yard and Mycroft had combined forces and the entire grounds were teaming with officers and agents. Unlike himself, they were all wearing riot gear and armed to the teeth. Unless West had a hidden tunnel to escape in, there was no way anyone could enter or leave the building without someone noticing. 

When Sherlock’s mood began to sour from the cold rain, he reminded himself once more that his situation was far better than John’s. They had no way of knowing if John had eaten or had anything to drink since his kidnapping. No one knew of John’s physical state either. So, Sherlock ignored the rain and went back to watching the door for any sign of movement while he waited for Byrd to arrive on scene. 

Roughly four hours ago Mycroft had sent him a text letting him know that they had found Byrd and that he had convinced the man to return to England to help. _More like bribed or threatened, those are the only forms of convincing Mycroft knows._ As soon as Byrd landed, the bomb disposal team would convene and come up with a plan. 

Footsteps crunched behind him, but he didn't turn to see who was approaching. A gentle hand patted him on the shoulder and the smell of Greg's cologne mixed with the scent of rain and oils from the asphalt. 

"Sherlock,” Greg said after clearing his throat, “We’ve had word from your brother. Byrd touched down at your brother’s private airstrip twenty minutes ago. He and Mycroft are on their way.”  
  
“Good.” Sherlock nodded once and let out a deep breath. This meant, regardless of the outcome, this whole nightmare would be over soon. Hopefully before the end of the day.

“Mate, why don’t you go to the trailer. Change into something dry, they have sweats there you can put on,” Greg’s suggestion was gentle, but Sherlock heard the edge of command behind them. He turned and looked at Greg who met his eye and nodded towards the small box trailer Mycroft’s team had placed on scene earlier that day. Inside were agents hunched over surveillance monitors. “Maybe get something hot to eat. Mrs. Hudson sent over a big pot of stew.” 

Raindrops hit Greg's umbrella and the rhythmic sound of them bouncing off the taught nylon was all Sherlock could think of for a moment. He pulled out of the daze then shook his head.  
  
“No, my place is here.”

“Sherlock,” Greg sighed, scrubbing his free hand through his shaggy hair, “You’ve been awake going on twenty-four hours now, you’re soaked to the bone and at least in there you can watch the monitors and see every angle of the building. Warm up, eat something hot, change, or don’t, then come back here. I’m not asking you to sleep or to go home. Just take care of you, so no one can claim you’re a liability.”  
  
“I’m supposed to be the logical one,” Sherlock grumbled then scoffed when a crack of a smile played across Greg’s lips. “But if you tell anyone that I am _resting_ I will kill you.” 

“Who said anything about resting?” Greg winked then stretched out a hand for the riot shield, “Just bring back an umbrella when you’re done.”  
  
“I’ll consider it.” Sherlock nodded, handed over the heavy shield then began walking away. After three steps he stopped, turned around, and said, “Text me if anything moves, I don’t care if it's just a stray cat. I want to know.” 

***

**Time since John went missing:** 2 days, 22 hours, 40 minutes  
 **Sunday Afternoon:** 1610

John woke up to the feeling that his bladder might burst at any moment. He tried rolling over, wanting sleep more than anything. But instead of being able to fall back asleep, the contents of his bladder shifted and he sat up with a groan. The motion caused his broken ribs to scream in pain. 

“Fuuccck…” he hissed, “I’m awake.” He tried rolling over when he rolled to his side and the contents of his bladder shifted, he groaned. The air was just as cold and damp as it had been in his cell, so as he stood John took one of the blankets with him, wrapping it around his shoulder for warmth. 

He teetered with his first few steps, then once the haze of pain and sleep subsided a little, he made his way over to the portable toilet and availed himself of the meger amenity with a sigh of relief. Once his bladder was empty, John went back to the wardrobe. He pulled out three cans, not caring much what was inside. Food was food, at that point. He took those, and another water bottle with him to the cot and sat on the edge, laying out his food like prized possessions. 

Laid out before him was a can of beans, soup, and green beans. Under normal circumstances, John might have searched for something else to eat, save for the beans. But today, he viewed them as a feast. Thankfully each can had an easy-open pull top, so he didn’t need to poke around for a can opener.   
  
He ate the green beans first, scooping the vegetables out with his fingers at first until he gave up and simply drained some of the water on the floor. Once that was done, he tilted his head back, opened his jaw as wide as it would go, and upended the contents into his mouth. He ate the contents of the next to cans in a similar fashion, then washed them down with water. When he was done, and his stomach full for the first time in days, he laid back down on the cot and started up at the ceiling and considered his next move.

“Shouldn’t have done that… I’ll get comfortable and fall back to sleep,” sure enough, John’s eyes were already growing heavy and he fought back a yawn. He forced himself to sit up again, wincing as his ribs protested the movement. On the table beside the bed was a large combat knife. John picked it up, stood up, and began cutting the sheet into long strips. 

Taking care to go slowly and not to jostle himself too sharply, John peeled off his borrowed turtleneck and placed it on the cot beside the torn-up sheet. There was no mirror in the tiny room, but he looked down and carefully inspected his chest. A dark purple bruise had formed while he’d slept. The worst of the bruising was focused just below his left nipple and spread out in a large patch. Gingerly pressing a finger against his ribs he began prodding along the bones,

“Hurts like a bitch, but… doesn’t appear to be anything broken. Maybe.” 

Worried that there might be a fracture he’d been unable to detect he went about with his plan and began winding the strips of sheet around his chest. He’d done this procedure many times while on the field, but he’d never felt just how much the fabric hurt as it wound tightly around him. Ensuring he wasn’t winding so tight as to damage anything or push a piece of broken bone (if there even was a break) into his lungs, he tied the sheet off and took a few deep breaths. 

“That should give me a bit of support, at the very least. Not that it’s a sprained ankle or anything…” 

Still, it felt nice to do something methodic. The act, if anything, had relaxed him. John rubbed the remainder of sleep from his eyes, carefully put the turtleneck back on then began rooting about the room for anything that could be of use. He had no doubt that if the vault door did not lead outside directly, he’d have more than one trial to overcome before he was completely free. West’s warning that he’d _Taken precautions_ had left him wondering what, not if, kind of booby traps waited for him.

His vision slid over the plethora of guns on the wall, then stopped when something familiar caught his eye. “Oh, hello, love,” he whispered disbelievingly.  
  
He walked over to the gun and gently took it off the rack, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” 

Reverently he held his grandfather’s revolver up to the dim light and inspected the surface for damage. The cylinder was empty, but John was just pleased to see that there was no apparent damage on the surface and pleased to have his property back.“Time to take you home,” he said, then continued his search around the room. 

After ten minutes of searching, John found nothing that could aid him. No maps, blueprints, takeout menus that could tell him where he was. There wasn’t a cellphone or a laptop. All he found was a weird box that looked like a short-range radio. Frustrated he threw the device against the wall where it shattered. His ribs ached, but he didn’t regret the momentary burst of destruction.

Eventually, John stood there scratching at the ghost of a beard on his chin staring at the vault door. John tucked his grandfather’s revolver into the back of his trousers and walked over to the door. The wheel twisted easily, and to his relief, the door swung outward on well-oiled hinges. 

The area beyond the door was a room the same width as the room he currently stood at, however it was roughly twice as long. A door stood in the far left corner, nestled between a large window and a pile of beat-up blue barrels. There was another window directly to his left, but John couldn’t see out either of them due to the boards nailed across them.   
  
The floor drew his attention, however. Someone had taken time to tear up most of the floorboards. Some boards sat in piles across the room, while it appeared others had been used to barricade the windows. Now the floor was nothing but dirt, and some of it had been recently disturbed. 

John stared in horror at the dirt floor. _I’ve taken precautions_. West had said, and now John knew what those precautions were. His mind flashed back to his time in the military, and to the rigorous training, he’d gone through before his first tour. Training that had once saved his life, and the men with him when it had given him the skills needed to detect the threat of explosives buried under the ground. Training Sholto had not paid enough attention to, which had nearly cost him his life and had cost the lives of all his new recruits. 

“Jesus, if Sherlock had tried to get in here….” John pushed the thought out of his mind. The image of Sherlock blown into pieces made him want to throw up.

John’s only saving grace, standing there standing at the room full of explosives, was the narrow path beaten into the dirt. It was just a footpath, and hard to see in places. But John knew that West had gotten him in here somehow and that he hadn’t had the time over the past two days to do all this work. A bead of sweat trickled down his back as he did his best to trace the path across the room.   
  
It clearly started just beyond the threshold, only a few inches away from where his feet rested now. If he looked hard enough it appeared to go straight to the far corner where it followed alongside a pile of boards then took a sharp turn towards the far door. 

“Clever… but at the same time, not so clever, West. I can see your path.” John retraced the path with his eyes, and as his eyes slid from the blue barrels to the pile of boards something clicked in the back of his mind. 

“The stupid song West wouldn’t stop singing! What if it was his instructions to get out?” They’d been taught in basic training that if there was ever important information they needed to remember, and writing it down wasn’t an option (or safe) to put the information to song. 

John ran through the verses of West’s version of Baa-baa Black sheep, and as he got to the last two verses he saw a correlation between the words and the landscape in front of him. 

**_Step step, skip skip  
_ ** **_Run to the window  
_ ** **_Straight sir, straight sir,  
_ ** **_Run till you hit indigo_ **

_Indigo… Does he mean those blue barrels by the window?_

**_One more left turn,  
_ ** **_Run to the boards  
_ ** **_Then one hard right turn  
_ ** **_You're almost at the door_ **

“The boards!” he shouted, his eyes sliding to the pile in the corner across from him. 

_What was next?..._ John followed the trail from the corner, which was almost straight across from where he stood, across the expanse of the room. There was a narrow path that cut between a pile of old cinder blocks, and it stretched all the way to where he stood now. 

**_Care now, young sir  
_ ** **_Can you see the floor?  
_ ** **_Side step, side step  
_ ** **_Now you're at the door._ **

“Sidestep? Not sure that I need to sidestep… but if he was just filling in the verse. So if I play the song backward, that should give me the clues to make it from obstacle to obstacle. And I can always keep an eye on the path.”

Though his nerves were frayed, and his confidence was lackluster, John sucked in a breath and stepped from the stone floor inside the vault onto the packed earth. He held his breath for several long seconds, waiting for something to happen. After a slow count to twenty, he relaxed and set his jaw. “Make it to the boards in one piece, and you’re one step closer to freedom.” 

He began picking his way carefully across the room. The path was wide enough for both feet if they were pressed together, so he ended up walking on the tips of his toes. When he was less than a foot away from the boards his left foot gave out and he stumbled forward. He managed to get his right foot planted firmly on the ground then stood there flapping his arms at his sides. 

His body ached and his broken bones made him cry out, but he managed to regain his balance after several precarious seconds. He forced his wobbly legs together, taking care that both feet were on the path, and stood still until his heart stopped racing. 

“Fuck me…” he groaned and swiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Keep moving…” 

This time he took care to plant each foot firmly on the ground. While it took longer, he managed to make it to the barrels without further incident. He spent several long moments with his back pressed against the door out willing his body to stop shaking. His mouth was dry and he wished he’d thought to bring along a bottle of water, but looking back at the vault door the very thought of going back made him laugh.

“Going back isn’t an option, so forward it is” 

When his legs eventually stopped shaking, John pulled himself back together and pulled the door open. He was relieved to see that the next room, while far larger also had a dirt floor. _Seems like a lot of work…_ John shook his head and stopped trying to make sense of his surroundings. West had never done things logically, and if he was being truthful, he wasn’t that keen on knowing. 

In front of him was a large garage door that appeared to have been some sort of loading dock. Like the windows, it was boarded up. The door in the far right corner, however, was unimpeded. 

“That must be the way out! So, what next… the last verse said to follow the window…” 

Sure enough, the path continued from where he stood along the boarded-up windows to his left. John placed a hand on the wall for support and found himself wishing he could tear the boards off the windows and simply jump through one of them. He knew that option was far too risky, however, as he didn’t have a safe place to toss the boards. Following the song was the clearest choice.

The path turned right at the corner of the last window. Keeping his hand braced on the wall, John twisted his neck and looked to his right. The path seemed to go through a pile of broken cinder blocks, over something that from this distance appeared to be old extension cords, then straight to the door. 

**_Step step, jump jump  
_ ** **_Over the cords you go  
_ ** **_Jump sir, jump sir,  
_ ** **_Or it'll blow._ **

**_One little left turn  
_ ** **_One little right  
_ ** **_Run through the rubble  
_ ** **_Straight down the center, or it'll bite._ **

“So, if I run through the center of those blocks, I’ll be fine. Then, if the song is correct the cords are rigged somehow? Jump over those, get to the fucking door, and I’m free.” 

John took his hand off the wall, turned so he was facing the last two obstacles and took in a deep breath.

“Run for it?” he asked himself, then nodded. 

He willed his legs forward and took off at a slow jog. It was easier at this speed to maintain his balance. He made it over the cinder blocks without event, crossed over the wires without touching them, then there was nothing between him and the door. 

His heartbeat a wild beat as his feet pounded over the floor. As he approached the door he threw out a hand and pushed the metal bar, shoving the door open as hard as he could. He broke free of the building with a triumphant shout, pumping his fist in the air as he kept on running. The sky above him was a hazy grey, the sun was low in the sky and trying to peek out through the grey clouds

“Take that, Pierce!” He shouted as his foot splashed into a puddle. “I fucking beat you!” He ran across a large open lot, and halfway across became aware that he was not alone. He was completely surrounded by men dressed in full riot gear. Each of them had a gun, and they were all trained on him.   
  
“Where is Sherlock!?” he shouted at no one in particular. If the MI5 were here, that meant Sherlock was nearby. No one moved or said anything. But no one shot at him either. Viewing that as encouragement he kept running. He ran past a building identical to the one he’d just left, rounded the corner, and saw in the far corner of the lot saw a handful of vehicles with their emergency lights flashing.   
  
John cast a quick look over his shoulder and saw that some of the men in riot gear had moved from their position around the perimeter and had instead formed a barrier between him and the building. He wanted to tell them there was no point, that West was dead, but as he turned around to face the flashing lights, a lone figure caught his attention. 

The events that followed next happened in slow motion for John. It was as if he could feel every cell in his body come to life at the sight of Sherlock. His heartbeat pounded in his ears until he could hear nothing else. With each footfall hitting the pavement, vibrations coursed up his legs as if the very ground was willing him to move faster. 

With every step he took, Sherlock’s form got closer and closer. At first, he was nothing more than a dark blur, distinguishable because of his tall frame and long coat. After a few paces, John could see his curls bouncing as he rushed to meet him. 

Twenty more steps brought John close enough that he could see Sherlock’s face. The expression written across his familiar features forced a sob out of John’s throat. Sherlock’s face was awash with grief, anger, disbelief, and unmistakable joy. The emotions flashed over Sherlock’s face like a strobe light, each making John’s chest ache and regret bubble in his chest. _If I hadn’t gone to the clinic… none of this would have happened…_

“Oh god, Sherlock… I’m sorry..” John sobbed and Sherlock’s face twisted into a look of utter grief. “I shouldn’t have… I should have stayed home…” he panted out and had to stop running when his lungs felt as if they might burst. His body was done, done fighting, done running, all he wanted was to collapse and feel Sherlock’s arms around him. 

When Sherlock was close enough to reach out and touch he threw out his arms and let his knees sink to the ground. Sherlock was by his side in a flash, two warm hands pressed against John’s shoulders as Sherlock knelt directly in front of him.

“John…” Sherlock whispered, his nose pressing against John’s forehead. “Are you hurt?”

“Broken rib, maybe ribs… underfed, dehydrated, and exhausted. But that about sums it up.” John said, his voice muffled by the Belstaff. “I’m sorry, Sherlock… god I’m sorry.” John buried his face against Sherlock’s chest. His cheek feeling the rough material of a kevlar vest hiding under Sherlock’s shirt.

“Shhh… you’re safe. That’s all that matters right now. We’ll talk later. But now, to hospital with you.”

“I just want to go home, have a shower, shave, and sleep in my own bed. God a bed, that would be lovely.”

“A bed I can give you, they have beds at hospitals,” Sherlock said, his voice slightly teasing making John want to nuzzle into his fiance even more.

“I’m sorry,” John muttered again and Sherlock gently kissed his head in reply. 

When John finally pulled free of Sherlock’s embrace and looked around, he found that they were the center of a tight ring of men. The men in black he’d seen previously around the border of the property had formed a protective circle around them as they’d embraced. They all had guns, and most of them had their weapons trained on the warehouse he’d just escaped from.

“John, where is West?” Sherlock asked, placing both hands on John’s cheeks and looking him square in the eyes.

“Dead. Shoved in the very cell he kept me in.” John answered, then closed his eyes and buried his face against Sherlock’s chest again. He heard Sherlock call for an ambulance, and static coming from a radio somewhere off to his right. Then there was the familiar voice of Greg Lestrade as he ordered the men forming a circle to make a path as an ambulance drove up. 

“Come with me?” John asked, too weary to make it a demand.

“I wouldn’t leave your side even if you told me to,” Sherlock said, helping John to his feet, then onto a waiting stretcher. 

John nodded then allowed himself to drift off as he was loaded into the back of the ambulance, Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his, despite the paramedic's complaints. For once, he didn’t tell Sherlock off or tell them to stop impeding their job. _Let the paramedics tell him off,_ he thought _, I just want to sleep._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While editing the format to post here, I caught a few spelling mistakes. If you catch anything huge, please let me know. Those mistakes are my own. 
> 
> So, this is where I had originally planned to leave the story, with a bit of fluff after the homecoming. But when I tried to write that fluff, I found there was more to tell.
> 
> I also wanted to write protective Lestrade, standing guard (watch dog style) over John here at the end, but when I tried to write too much of him he sort of crossed his arms over his chest and said "Not my story, ignore me"
> 
> It isn't what I had mapped out on my timeline, but I'm proud of this, and I honestly cannot wait to upload the next chapter. I'm really really proud of that one.
> 
> ALSO NEWS, as promised above. This story is now complete in my google docs! Waiting for my beta (BRNZ) to go over it after the holidays die down, but it is DONE. I've actually spent today sort of mourning the loss of this story... Been rather sad, honestly. 
> 
> I'll continue to upload a chapter here and there. My goal is to wait until I have the first story on lulu, and post that link with the last chapter here. BUT if that doesn't work, find me on facebook (here https://www.facebook.com/groups/johnlocked ) and I'll post the links there once its all sorted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds he has emotions and doesn't know what to do with them.

John tolerated being a patient for as long as he could; and in his defense only shouted at his medical team twice. The questions they asked him were tedious and redundant, and when one doctor mentioned sending him off for a stress test John snapped for the first time. 

“I just want to get the hell out of here, wash the hospital smell off of me, and wear my own clothes. So kindly fuck off, get me my discharge papers, and let me go home.” John read upside down as the doctor wrote “hostile” on his chart then left the room with a frown. 

“That wasn’t very smart…” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and looking towards where Sherlock sat out of the way in the corner of the room.

“Bit not good,” Sherlock agreed and gave him a half-hearted smile. 

John barely had time to enjoy the silence before his mental health team entered the room. There were three of them, a lead doctor and two students. They spent the next twenty minutes asking him question after question while they tried to judge his mental state. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, and when they started asking the same questions just worded differently to judge his responses, he snapped for the second time. 

This time he didn’t snap  _ at _ the doctors, instead, he simply crossed his arms over his chest and mumbled something about being too tired to continue. The team kept on for another ten minutes until they finally accepted that, at best, they would get one-word answers out of John and nothing more.

When they left, John was wheeled to radiology for a series of X-rays. During which he scared off the radiologist when he began complaining (loudly) that they should have done the X-rays first.

“If I do have broken bones, wouldn’t it have been wise to get that out of the way first? Before pestering me with a torrent of people asking me ridiculous questions?” He mumbled before being instructed to hold his breath while the radiologist snapped the first X-ray.

“Sir, we’ve been booked solid. Between an accident, and scheduled appointments, this was the first chance we’ve had to get you in,” the tech said, doing her best to keep her tone polite.

After X-rays, when it was determined that John did in fact  _ not _ have any broken bones, he was finally allowed to shower. Someone, Mrs. Hudson he assumed, had brought over a pair of pyjamas for him to change into. Once clean and in familiar clothing, he finally felt more like himself. The sun was just setting when the last doctor bid John a good evening.

“Other than the nurses checking on me during their rounds, barring any medical emergency, they should leave us alone now,” John sighed as he used the controls on the side of his bed to lower the bed so he could lay down a bit flatter. “Hungry?” he asked, looking over at Sherlock, “hospital food isn’t the best, but there’s a good curry place just across the street. 

Sherlock pulled himself out of his chair in the corner then stretched before reaching for his coat. He left without asking John what he’d like and without giving John as much as a smile goodbye. As John watched Sherlock’s back disappear around the door frame, he felt a chill cut through him despite the pile of blankets on his bed.

The analgesic administered through his IV clouded his brain. Now he was aware that Sherlock was upset, try as he might he couldn’t put a finger on  _ why. _ John let out a frustrated breath and let his head fall back against the pillow. 

“Wonderful… I didn’t even stop to think about Sherlock and his anxiety when they asked me the conditions I was kept in. Of course, Sherlock will be upset, he spent weeks inside a hell hole, here I am nearly unscathed and free after three days. Good job, Watson… good fucking job.”

John berated himself for his lack of empathy and callousness until Sherlock returned. Instead of being drawn to the pleasant aromas rising out of the takeaway bag, he began to fidget nervously with a corner of his blanket. He watched silently as Sherlock took two boxes of food out of the bag, then withdrew plastic cutlery and a few napkins. He placed one box on the rolling table beside John’s bed then positioned the table so John could eat off of it without difficulty.

They ate in silence and without making eye contact. John hardly tasted the food as he methodically shoveled bite after bite into his mouth. When he couldn’t take the silence and avoidance any longer, he pushed the table aside and sat up. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed he planted both feet on the cold floor and cleared his throat. Sherlock finally looked up and met John’s gaze with sad eyes.

“Are… you alright?” John asked softly, torn between walking over to Sherlock or inviting him to sit on the bed beside him. Unsure of Sherlock’s mood he opted for remaining where he was while testing the waters.

“No,” came the blunt reply and Sherlock tore his eyes away from John and began dragging his fork through his food.

“Right…” John fought back a sigh and reminded himself that Sherlock was still fighting his own war and that he didn’t know how Sherlock had handled himself since Thursday, “you’re upset. I can see that much.”

“Very observant.” Sherlock snorted, then closed up his food container and tossed it half-eaten into the trash.

“You’re angry… but,” John mused in a gentle tone, “not angry enough to leave me to spend the night alone. Or were you just being nice, and thought you’d just have dinner with me then head home?” 

Sherlock didn’t reply and stared at the floor, his face closed and unhappy looking. As Sherlock refused to look up at him, John let out another sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Sherlock, we’re both beyond exhausted. While I typically don’t mind your sullen silence, I’m not exactly doing my best thinking right now,” he raised his left hand, where the IV was still slowly feeding him fluids and medication, “Tonight I’m asking that you meet me halfway if you’re mad at me, or at something I did, please just tell me. Don’t make me guess.” 

Sherlock got up and walked over to the large window that looked down on the busy street below. He could still make out John’s shape in his reflection on the window.  Watching John’s form he c losed his eyes and exhaled sharply. He knew that seeing John alive again should have sparked some feeling of joy or relief inside him. 

While he was pleased to have John back, seeing him and hearing him talk about his days in captivity had dredged up memories he would rather forget. Earlier, as he listened to John a single thought took seed in his mind. By the time the doctors had left it was all, he could think about.  The thought became so powerful it drowned out the memory of his damp cell. The notion consumed him until any joy he had felt at seeing his fiance alive and  _ mostly _ well was a distant memory.

_ None of this would have happened if John had been honest and had come to me when Sholto first threatened him. Everything, all this, could have been avoided. I haven’t felt this helpless since I was living out of a single bag and sleeping on Les… Greg’s couch.  _

“I’ve found I cannot pick and choose what I feel. In order to love you, I have to allow myself to feel the far less pleasant emotions as well. Like fear, anger, anxiety. I could, of course, shut all emotion off again, delete my time in Serbia… But with it would go the happier sensations that I feel, thanks to you.” Sherlock drummed his fingers on the windowsill for a moment, the repetitive motion calming him enough that he was able to collect his thoughts. “I’m angry at myself, for being angry at you. If that makes sense,” 

Opening his eyes once more, he took in John’s slumped shoulders and the way he was cradling his left arm. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, turning around and looking John straight in the eye. 

“Let’s enjoy our reunion. Here,” he gestured to the room, “isn’t the place to discuss what I have to say. I think, what I need to say should be said in front of a professional, because perhaps I am overreacting. Emotions, well… allowing myself to feel and express them, is new to me. I think… having a professional at hand would be wise.” 

“Professional? Like a therapist?” John asked, his head snapping up to look at Sherlock’s back.

“Exactly like a therapist. I assume you’d be more comfortable with Ella?” 

_ Therapy? He thinks we need therapy? Oh god…  _ John’s mind raced and his heart thumped rapidly in his chest. He was aware that somewhere a monitor was beeping, indicating his vitals had spiked. Drained as he was from his ordeal this was more than he was capable of dealing with right now. He had over taxed his body and mind during his escape, and this was not the relaxing evening spent in Sherlock’s arms he’d been hoping for. 

His throat constricted, and though he tried to swallow down the sob it tore free. He brought his untethered hand up to his face and let the tears flow freely as he asked a question, despite not wanting to know the answer. 

“Sherlock… are… you’re not ending our engagement, are you?” John’s question was nearly inaudible and was followed up by a harsh choking sound that made Sherlock spin around sharply.

“Oh god, John, no…” Sherlock said, rushing over to sit beside John  and felt a pang of guilt stab his chest at his Fiance’s tears. He hadn’t meant to make John cry. In fact, that was the very reason he’d decided it would be best to share his feelings in front of a therapist. A controlled atmosphere would serve them both well.

He put an arm gently around John’s shoulders then kissed the side of his head, “ no, John. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing and regret it for the rest of my life.  I’ll say something without knowledge of a hidden meaning behind my words. I can’t risk losing you because I said one thing, and it was taken another way.”

Sherlock rested his fingers on the nape of John’s neck. When John still didn’t lean into his touches he carefully slid his hand along John’s shoulder and pulled him in towards his chest.

“I want to do right by you, and that means exploring and understanding these emotions. For that, I need help. It isn’t fair to put that particular burden on you. Especially as there are people who have spent their lives studying the human mind. So, therapy is simply a logical choice; and I think we’ll both benefit from it. ” 

John  finally  leaned into Sherlock and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. The very possibility of Sherlock leaving,  on top of everything he’d endured the last few days , had left John undone. He cried heavily against Sherlock’s shoulder, choking out broken and half muttered sentences.

“I.. can’t. Not again,” and, ''God, Sherlock don’t leave,” filled the room until Sherlock twisted so he could wrap both arms around John’s body. Holding him as tightly as he dared he pulled John against his chest and soothed his hands along the span of John’s back.

“John Watson,”  Sherlock said as gently as he could, while still adding enough sharpness to his voice that it would cut through John’s panic.  “I am not leaving you. I am beyond incapable of living in this world without you by my side.” Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s temple, softly kissing along his hairline. “Please, don’t cry. We should be celebrating your safe return. I apologize that I got so caught up in my own mind I lost sight of the most important thing. You.” 

It took John a while to pull himself together. Once he allowed himself to cry he found it difficult to stop. He tried telling himself that he wasn’t nearly hydrated enough to cry. But thanks to the IV drip his body was more than happy to prove him wrong. It wasn’t until Sherlock’s fingers began teasing the fine hairs along the back of his neck that he felt himself begin to calm down. 

“You,” John said around a hiccup and yawn, “should go home and get some sleep.”

“Lestrade’s men will still be at the flat. Plus, I’d rather be close to you.”

“Oh,” John didn’t ask what Lestrade’s men were doing at their flat. He just nodded his head slowly then sat up and scrubbed his palm over his face.  He felt raw through and through. It was difficult to think, let alone sit upright. Bracing one hand behind him on the bed he sighed and said wearily, “I think I need to sleep.”

“Then sleep, John. We’ll talk more in the morning.” Sherlock began to rise from the bed but John stopped him by taking hold of his elbow.

“Stay…” he asked softly and held his breath while he waited for Sherlock’s response. His heart leapt in his chest when Sherlock stood up and he felt the fingers of panic pressing into his reasoning. Before his anxiety had time to manifest, however, Sherlock was taking his shoes off and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Get comfortable, John, I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep. Best if I fit in around you, so I don’t tug on your IV.” Sherlock bent forward and lifted up the blankets, and began lowering the back of the bed.

John settled as best he could against the edge of the bed, his right shoulder pressed against the guardrail. Despite his best efforts to make room, it didn’t leave much space for Sherlock.

“This is one of those times my thin frame works to our advantage,” observed Sherlock as he lay down on his side and placed an arm over John’s stomach. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No, that’s fine.” John closed his eyes and focused on evening out his breathing. The deep breaths he’d taken to stave off his anxiety had made his chest feel as if he’d been stabbed. “If I hadn’t seen the X-rays myself, I’d swear I had a bone poking my lungs,” he complained, wincing at the pain.

They shifted in bed until John at least was comfortable. Feeling his eyes begin to grow heavy, he turned to face Sherlock and smiled sadly at his partner.

“I’m sorry I freaked out there… I’m actually quite proud of you, Sherlock.”

“For what?” Sherlock asked gently, his brows creasing from mild confusion.  _ What could John possibly be proud of me over?  _

“You just acknowledged that you’re dealing with emotions, and you don’t know  _ how _ to deal. That’s hard for anyone to admit, let alone someone who’s new to feeling these things,” John wiggled a bit on the bed, moving his IV line and hooking one of his feet around Sherlock’s calves. “You’re right, we should see Ella.” 

The room settled into silence, or what passed for silence in a hospital. For a stretch of time, the only noises were those of the monitors beeping, phones ringing at the nearby nurse's station, and pieces of conversation drifting in from the hall. Nearly asleep, John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s and whispered, “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” 

“Shhh…” Sherlock soothed, his fingers stroking small circles along John’s hips, “I know.” 

John yawned broadly, then cursed under his breath as his lungs expanded and pressed against his bruised rib cage, “Fuck. Yawning hurts…. It feels like someone’s hit me with a sledgehammer…” he wheezed

“Then go to sleep, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up, Mycroft has paid off the entire staff on this floor, so I won’t be told to leave.”

Nodding in agreement , John closed his eyes. For a while, his mind focused on the sounds coming from the hall as the nurses and various staff attended to their duties. He had to remind himself that tonight he was a patient and he didn’t have to listen for emergencies. Turning his focus to the man beside him, he concentrated on Sherlock’s steady breathing until the familiar rhythm lulled him to sleep.   
  


***

  
  
Monday morning came and went  without John being released from the hospital. It was nearly noon before John finally was handed discharge papers. They, of course, included instructions to follow up with his GP regarding his bruised chest. John went through the motions, promising to do just that. Though both he and the doctor knew he had no intentions of doing so. 

“I’ll step out, and let you change.” Mrs. Hudson declared, following the doctor out of the room and shutting the door behind her.  She’d been fussing over John for the past hour after bringing him a container full of scones. (She’d made him eat two of them, and tried for a third until Sherlock frowned at her.) 

Sherlock handed John the bag of clothing she’d brought with her, then helped him out of his t-shirt and into the much warmer jumper.

Once dressed in his own clothing and his own shoes John stood up and heaved a relieved sigh.

“I feel a bit more like myself,” John announced as he  handed over the shoes Mycroft had given him. He wiggled his toes inside his own shoes and let out a pleased sigh. “Wonderful, how something as simple as familiar shoes can make you feel like a new man.”

“Trust me, I understand,” Sherlock said as he took the shoes and placed them into a bag. He regarded John, now dressed and  _ mostly _ put together, and smiled. “For me, it was simply wearing a shirt again. That shirt you gave me, when you rescued me. It had been so long since I’d felt any warmth.” Sherlock looked down at himself, now dressed in his typical attire of well tailored clothing. “Then, when we got home and I put on my own clothing… You might not know this, but I sat in front of my wardrobe and cried.”

“I didn’t know that,” reaching out John placed his hand on Sherlock’s arm. He suddenly realized that there was still so much that needed to be said hanging over their heads. 

“Home?” he asked gently over the rustle of the plastic back in Sherlock’s hand.

“Home,” Sherlock agreed, “Lestrade texted me, the flat has been vacated. He’ll be around later to welcome you back.”

John left the hospital flanked on either side by Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson linked her arm through John’s while Sherlock kept a steady hand on John’s back. A black sedan car waited just outside the main entrance for them. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother’s meddling, but John for once didn’t mind the interference. 

“You two go on ahead, I’ll stop by the chemist and pick up John’s prescriptions,” Mrs. Hudson offered, “and something nice for dinner. Sherlock you get him home, and into a hot bath. Add some salts to the water, that’ll help ease his sore muscles.” 

They both knew better than to argue with her, so Sherlock simply kissed her cheek and handed her his bank card before seeing her into a taxi.

“We don’t deserve her,” he commented as he joined John in the back of the sedan. 

“We certainly do not,” John agreed, “a bath sounds fantastic.” 

***   
  


Sherlock was pleased to find their flat free of police officers and their mess. He ushered John to the sofa and made him sit and wait while he fixed him a bath. Since returning home from Serbia he and John had made frequent use of the tub itself, and he found himself mildly pleased that he didn’t have to stop to clean it.

As the tub began to fill up, he added a heaping scoop of Epsom salts and some essential oils borrowed from Mrs. Hudson’s flat. When the tub had a few inches of water in it, he went to retrieve John and helped him undress. While warm the jumper proved to be painful for John to remove. It ended up tangled around his head, and he stood there in the center of the bathroom with one arm stuck in the air while the other was pressed against his side.

“Thank you…” John muttered as Sherlock untangled him and tossed the jumper aside. 

“What are partners for, if not to help their better half escape from a horrid jumper?” Sherlock asked, a smile playing over his lips for the first time in days. “Probably best to avoid them for a while.”   
  
“Oi, why do you hate my jumpers so much?” John frowned as he stepped out of his trousers and pants. 

“Because they’re horrid. You have such a wonderful body, yet you insist on hiding it behind shapeless woolen jumpers. Just look at you…” Sherlock greedily ran his eyes over John’s naked body, taking in the layers of muscle. The large purple bruise on John’s chest didn’t take anything away from how appealing John’s body was.

“Yeah well, some of this,” John patted the meager muscles on his stomach, “is new. I was a bit flabby this time last year.” 

Sherlock hummed noncommittally as he helped John lower himself into the tub. Once John was comfortable he left the room, only to return a few minutes later. He placed a cup of tea on the side of the tub.

“Ta,” John said, his voice resigning with gratitude. 

Smiling Sherlock settled on the floor with his back against the tub and his head resting on John’s shoulder. His body slowly relaxed as he sipped on his own mug of tea. The realization that John was home safe finally taking root in his mind.  _ Part of me wants to cry, or jump up and down for joy that John is home. While another, smaller part, wants to strangle him for putting me through these last few days of hell.  _ He must have sighed or made a noise to alert John, because a wet hand came to rest in Sherlock’s curls. 

“Alright?” John asked softly.

“No, but I don’t know how to discuss it without it turning into a complicated conversation that will muddy the joy I feel at having you home. Can… we wait to discuss it until we meet with Ella?” 

“We should call her, set up an appointment.” John mused as his fingers started massaging Sherlock’s scalp.

“I did, this morning while you were sleeping. If you’re up to it, we can see her tomorrow at ten.” 

“Tomorrow, yeah.” John nodded even though Sherlock had his back to him, then took his hand out of Sherlock’s hair, “Here, let me lay down…” he said then lowered himself into the water. 

Sherlock stood up then, and pointedly placed John’s electric razor on the side of the sink, before leaving John to enjoy his soak.

***   


Greg arrived later that afternoon and was instantly invited to stay for dinner by Mrs. Hudson when she answered the door. Up in 221b, he found John resting on the sofa while Sherlock sat in his chair plucking away at his violin.

“Still can’t play?” he asked in lieu of a greeting. Having spent the last three days in the flat, he felt little need to announce himself. 

“Hurts my shoulder still. Best I can do is pluck a few harmonies.” Sherlock said around a frustrated sigh. 

“You’ll get there, Sherlock. You’re stronger than you think.” Greg looked over to John who appeared to be asleep then asked, “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine. A bit bruised, cranky, and hungry enough to eat even Mrs. Hudson out of house and home, but he’s home. And we have you to thank for that, Greg.” 

“Greg?” John opened his eyes and carefully propped himself up on an elbow, staring at Sherlock with a look of pure incredulity. 

“That is his name, John,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at his partner.

“I know that, nearly everyone knows that. But… you? You know that?”

“It’s important to know the first names of your friends,” Sherlock added playfully, enjoying the confusion radiating from the sofa. “Go back to sleep.”

“Actually, if I could, John,” Greg cut in around a chuckle. “Byrd has successfully led a team to the vault, and West’s body is being transported to St. Bart’s as we speak. Molly Hooper is listed as in charge of the autopsy. Any chance you could tell me, in your own words, how West died?” 

“Sure. I strangled him after injecting him with ketamine. Then once he was out , I snapped his neck.” John’s eyes lost their glint of playfulness as he recalled the noise West’s vertebrae had made. “He’s dead then? I checked for a pulse. But the last time I did that,” he looked over to where Sherlock sat in his chair, “I was wrong.” 

“Good and dead, John. He can’t hurt you or Sherlock anymore. Mycroft’s team is working to ensure Sholto isn’t a threat going forward as well. Byrd is pretty pissed off at Sholto, by the way.” Greg added.

“I would imagine so. Sholto broke the pact and our trust. He was a good man, but he’s let his paranoia turn him into something ugly.” John sighed then lowered himself back down against the cushions. “Greg, Sherlock told me everything you did to help… I don’t even know how to begin thanking you properly.”

“Just doing my job, and helping two friends.” Greg shrugged humbly as he settled himself in John’s vacant chair. “I’ll uh… be going to Bart’s tomorrow once Molly is finished if either of you wanted to come.”

“Oh? Going to personally get the report from Molly, eh?” Suddenly a smile lit up John’s face. For a moment Sherlock wondered if his fiance had finally cracked. He looked to Greg for help but was only left more confused by the blush creeping along Greg’s cheeks.

“I missed something,” Sherlock stated numbly. “What did I miss.”

“Oh… just the fact that Greg has a massive crush on a certain pathologist. Why else would he personally go to Bart’s to collect a report when he could send some underline across town to retrieve it.” 

Greg’s blush deepened at John’s words, but he didn’t deny the accusation. 

“Greg, for the record. She fancies you too. Why else would she offer to take  _ all _ of your cadavers? She doesn’t offer because it’s fun.” 

“If you like her,” Sherlock said slowly as if he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth, “tell her. Life is too short, and none of us are getting any younger. Speaking of age, some women like older men.” 

“Thanks, mate,” Greg complained, rolling his eyes at the jab about his age. “Never thought I’d take dating advice from you.”

Sherlock snorted at that and John barked out a laugh then spent the next several moments clutching his chest and wheezing in pain.

“Serves you right,” Sherlock retorted, even while he got up to retrieve John’s next dose of pain pills.

Mrs. Hudson outdid herself with dinner later that night. She made roasted lamb, roasted brussel sprouts and asparagus, jacket potatoes and for dessert, she’d made her famous chocolate trifle. Sherlock had opened a bottle of good wine for dinner, John declined a glass regretfully, but did take a small sip from Sherlock’s glass. He did have a small glass of cognac with dessert but declined a second glass of the expensive amber liquid when everyone retired to the sitting room. 

Mrs. Husdon and Greg sat with them a while and politely listened as John glossed over the story of what had happened to him. When he’d related the events, and the cognac was gone, she bid everyone goodnight, promising to take care of the dishes tomorrow. Greg left shortly after, leaving the couple to themselves for the rest of the evening. 

“Off to bed with you. Time for a good long cuddle, doctors orders.” 

“Oh? I don’t see that particular order written down…” John said around a giggle as he picked up the discharge papers the nurse had given him. He made a show of flipping through papers, reading the instructions out loud, until he got to the end, “Oh yes, here it is… I must have missed it. It says here, cuddle your finance for no fewer than three hours a day.” 

“See, John. I told you. Now stop arguing with me, and get to bed.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rather proud of Sherlock, for admitting he needs help figuring out how to deal with emotions. He's done a lot of growing.
> 
> Three more chapters, all sitting nice and pretty in my google docs. :) 
> 
> Also, fair warning. I know absolutely nothing about what goes on in hospitals in England. So, please be kind about that hospital scene. Just going on what I know from experience from America. (And fanfiction)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER! 
> 
> While I have participated in therapy myself, I am NOT a therapist nor a professional, nor do I have any clue how that profession differs in the UK compared to here in the US. Please don't nit-pick too hard here.

The sun was well up when John woke Tuesday morning. Rolling over as far as his injuries would let him, he glanced at the clock and saw it was just after eight in the morning. The bed beside him was empty, but the faint memory of an evening spent with Sherlock’s face pressed against his shoulder made him smile.

Sitting up in bed he noticed a tall glass of water sitting on the table next to the clock. Beside it were two tablets. John swallowed them down, along with half of the water before attending to his morning routine. 

When he finally stepped out into the lounge he spotted the familiar back of Mycroft’s rapidly balding head sitting in his chair. Sherlock caught his gaze and rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed at his brother’s presence, but John just smiled. 

“Tea?” he asked, filling the kettle with enough water for three mugs.

“You’re injured, John, let Sherlock do that,” Mycroft said without turning around.

“I’ve got a bruised rib or two, I’m not dying. I can make tea.” John called back, doing his best to hide his discomfort. Reaching up into the cupboard for tea and mugs caused a sharp pain to radiate over his chest, but he refused to show weakness in front of Mycroft. “Let me do what I’m able, and for the next few weeks, I’ll leave the heavy lifting to you. Sherlock shouldn’t be lifting anything either.” 

“Ever the soldier…” he heard Mycroft mutter over Sherlock’s chuckle, but when he went to hand Mycroft a mug of tea, the elder Holmes thanked him. John hovered over him, hoping that Mycroft would get the hint that he wanted to sit in his chair. It took several seconds, and John had to clear his throat twice. But eventually, he sighed and vacated the armchair.

“I was just telling Sherlock,” Mycroft said, settling in the less comfortable wooden chair used for clients, “Sholto has been placed under house arrest. I personally will be overseeing his internet usage, and any personnel he hires. He has strict rules of no contact with either of you, on top of a dozen other precautions we’ve set up.”

“That’s good,” blowing on his tea he looked over at Mycroft and shrugged his shoulders, “Is that all?”

“Not quite," Mycroft said, ignoring the dismissal, "I have also recommended a therapist for the two of you, and have returned your mobile and wallet." He took a sip of his tea then continued, "The screen was cracked, but we replaced it for you. Nothing seems to have been stolen from your wallet.” 

“And I told him we don’t need him meddling in our affairs,” Sherlock sighed and cast his brother an annoyed look. “We don’t need your therapist.” 

“Sherlock’s right. We’ve already decided to see Ella. Plus, I don't quite like that somehow you're privy to a private conversation Sherlock and I had," John said evenly while staring the elder Holmes down. Mycroft had done quite a lot to help them both out, and while John was thankful for the help, he didn't need Mycroft making a habit of spying on them. "If you have any microphones or cameras in our flat, I kindly suggest you remove them."

"If I don't?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. 

"I'll ask unkindly." John shrugged as he regarded Mycroft over the brim of his mug. He then smiled pleasantly at Mycroft who, in return, stared blankly back at him. After a long moment, in which John felt his very soul flayed open for Mycroft to see, Mycroft nodded briskly. A moment later he was standing and collecting his umbrella.

"Thanks for visiting, Mycroft. We have a busy day ahead of us," John said trying not to sound too pleased that Mycroft was leaving. 

“Yes, I have business to attend to myself. Someone has to sign the paperwork that keeps this whole ordeal out of court. While it was unarguably self-defense, murder typically requires a lengthy court case.”

_ Oh? Threatening me in my own flat? How dull. _ John sighed and placed his cup of tea on the small table to his right. He stood, ignoring the pain in his chest as he pulled himself to his full height and squared his shoulders. He stalked right into Mycroft’s personal space, folded his hands behind his back, and said coolly, “Mycroft, I think we’ll both find it a lot less embarrassing if you don’t try to threaten me.” 

John held his ground until Mycroft dipped his head and scurried out of the door. When his footsteps indicated he’d nearly reached the bottom of the stairs John relaxed his posture and turned to sit back in his chair. As he adjusted himself and picked up his mug he looked over at Sherlock who stared at him slack-jawed. 

“What?” he asked casually, taking a sip of the hot liquid.

“You just told my brother off, and he didn’t argue or push back.” 

“Maybe he’s afraid I’ll snap his neck too?” John said jokingly, which made Sherlock snort and spill his tea.

“That would be the day.” Sherlock chuckled as he went to retrieve a flannel from the kitchen to clean up the mess.

“What time is Ella expecting us?” John called out, he knew Sherlock had mentioned the time yesterday, but between the wine and sleeping like the dead, he couldn’t quite recall.

“Ten, so you have time to eat something if you wish, then we should get going. I know you don’t like being late.”

***

  
  
The taxi dropped them off in front of Ella’s office ten minutes before their appointment began. John checked in with the receptionist then directed Sherlock towards a waiting room. Still unsure exactly what it was that Sherlock needed to say he fidgeted nervously with the inner seam on his jeans until Sherlock reached over to take his hand. 

The simple point of contact calmed John’s nerves enough that he was able to stop bouncing his foot. This was the first time he could recall being nervous before a session with Ella.  Typically his presence here meant something had pushed him beyond nerves and well into the realm of quiet rage. To be here, by request of someone else and not due to circumstances was unnerving. Amplified by the singular fact that it had been Sherlock of all people to suggest this meeting . 

He watched the light beside the door until it switched from red to green.  The green bulb illuminated and he felt his heart jump in his chest, worry and anxiety over what would be shared in the session caused him to momentarily freeze up. Hearing a rustle beside him he looked up to see Sherlock already standing and glancing down at him. Recalling all of his military training John swallowed down the fear and nodded sharply. Still holding Sherlock’s hand he stood and stoically  made his way towards the familiar office.

“Ready?” he asked softly. He gripped the doorknob firmly hoping Sherlock wouldn’t notice the way his hand shook.

“Ready,” confirmed Sherlock with a nod, then followed him inside. John instinctively went to sit in one of the two vacant armchairs. Sherlock, however, walked a circle around the room while John and Ella exchanged a greeting. He checked for cameras and microphones out of habit  but also took the time to absorb the tiny details Ella had taken time to add to her space. 

Her office was surprisingly sparse. Instead of cluttered and overcrowded bookcases, knick-knacks, and modern art, it was surprisingly empty. The room was large and well lit by natural light. A large picture window overlooked a well-kept garden, giving the room an open and welcoming feel.    
  
The furniture was simple and practical. Altogether there were three chairs. Two side by side, one occupied by John; while the third sat a span away facing the others. Between the chairs was a small table with a pitcher of water and three glasses. There was one bookcase along the far wall with various self-help titles on the upper shelves, while the lower had children’s books along with a few toys. A single desk void of clutter finished the room. 

_ Neat, organized, free of distractions. This is a room put together by someone who wants their clients to focus on themselves, or the person with them. Not on a fancy picture or dusty bouquet of flowers. My brother could learn a thing or two from this room.  _

Inwardly he rolled his eyes as he recalled Mycroft’s many offices. Mycroft cared more about material things that displayed his status than he did a constructive space. 

Despite this being his idea, Sherlock was not quite ready to have a stranger pry into his very being. He knew he was delaying the inevitable by walking back to the window, but he welcomed the distraction. If only for a moment. The garden was quite beautiful, well kept, and lovingly tended. A birdbath provided a focal point in the very center and he watched as a pair of birds flitted around. 

Behind him, John cleared his throat. Sherlock turned around and gave his fiance an apologetic smile then turned his attention to Ella. She was watching him with intelligent brown eyes. He got the feeling that she saw much more than she let on, and when she smiled at him he shivered. Instead of introducing himself, or reaching out to shake her hand he cocked his head and frowned.

“John’s the only other person who looks at me like that,” he said,  deciding to skip over an introduction. From that look, he’d been able to understand that he and Ella knew each other for who they were. She’d seen into his very soul and he into hers. 

“Like what?” She asked and Sherlock knew she’d asked simply to hear his answer. Not because she was ignorant. 

“Like… I matter.” Sherlock winced at how absurd that sounded. “No… I guess that’s not exactly true. Mrs. Hudson and Greg treat me like I matter. It’s more like… what I feel matters.”  He knew there was a shred of inaccuracy to that as well. Out of everyone in his circle, John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson had proven time and time again that they cared how Sherlock felt. Hadn’t Greg just spent the last few days helping him emotionally handle John’s disappearance? 

“My friends care,” Sherlock amended softly, “but to the world, I am a machine, a man who feels nothing except the drive to solve cases. You don’t know me, yet you care.”

“Emotions are valid,” Ella said but stopped short when Sherlock held up his hand.

“Yes, I know.  _ Emotions are valid, what you’re feeling is normal, this is a safe place _ … Spare me the inclusive sayings. I don’t need to be validated, I need to be taught to work through my emotions. I…” Sherlock sighed and crossed the room to sit beside John, “I pushed my emotions aside for thirty-four years, now that I’ve allowed them through my defenses, I need to process them without hurting John. At the same time, if you’re up for the challenge, John and I have a few minor issues to deal with.” 

“Minor issues?” Ella asked, her smile never wavering.  She of course knew all about John’s anger issues, and even if John had never said explicitly that he blamed himself for past events, he knew Ella was aware. It was  _ his _ issues specifically she was asking about.

“Our dueling saviour complexes. I died to save John, well, I pretended to die. He went and tried to take down a skilled assassin on his own in order to protect me. Neither scenarios quite worked out the way we planned, both times we caused each other quite a bit of pain.”

“I am aware,” Ella said while opening a notebook and reading over some notes, presumably from John’s earlier sessions, “of the first incident, and I’ve read about John’s disappearance in the newspapers. Care to fill me in on that?” She looked questioningly from Sherlock to John.

“Yes, I suppose knowing the details will help…” Sherlock sighed, crossing one leg over his knee. “John?”

“Huh? Oh… right.” John cleared his throat and filled Ella in on the details surrounding his kidnapping. 

“We hadn’t been home long, Sherlock was still healing from some of his more severe wounds. The most we could do was a short walk here and there or a trip to the shops. And even then, those were mentally taxing on him. We’d been spending a quiet morning in, he was lounging on the sofa attempting to bore a hole into the ceiling with his eyes,” John recalled, remembering the morning Sholto had first made contact.

“I checked my email hoping for something to keep Sherlock’s mind occupied. Sometimes clients find my email from my blog and email me. Only, instead of finding a puzzle for Sherlock, I found one intended for me.”

John went on to explain the email and the meaning behind it. How the references to Lions and Panthers referred directly to himself and West. He briefly touched on what role West and Sholto had played in his life, taking care not to say too much about the organization or what jobs they’d been tasked with. Ella would need much higher clearance before he could go into those details. 

“There is sort of an unspoken code among groups like ours. Much like in the mafia. What happens in the family stays in the family. It crossed my mind that Sherlock should know, but as I watched him struggle with the restrictions of his own body I couldn’t bring myself to make things worse for him.” 

“Don’t you think that decision should have been Sherlock’s to make?” Ella asked delicately, looking from one man to the other. 

After a long moment, John nodded and looked guilty down at his hands. “I do now,” he mumbled.

“Then learn from this, both of you. Practice opening up to each other every day, no matter how small. If you make it a habit to not withhold information when issues like this pop up that habit will be there to fall back on. Think of it like muscle memory, after all, what is your brain but a complex muscle?”

She paused a moment to let her words sink in, then looked to John with a nod, encouraging him to continue. 

John went on to describe the countdown and the e-mail from West. He explained how he thought he’d have time to go to work and how he’d taken the shift in order to bring back a morsel of normality to their lives. 

“I didn’t expect West to act early. That’s… bad business. I thought I would have time to get home and tell Sherlock everything. Only I was wrong and too late to open up. I spent my time stuck in that hole worried I wouldn’t get the chance to make things right with Sherlock.”

By the time John had finished telling his story, including his time spent in the cell and his escape, his hands were shaking and his voice had gone hoarse. Sherlock reached for the pitcher of water and a glass. He poured John a full glass then pressed it carefully into John’s trembling hands. 

“Ta,” John muttered.

“That was a lot, John.” Ella said with a hint of pride in her voice, “You’ve gotten much better at expressing yourself.”

“Yeah well, punching people is what my dad did. I’m not my father.” 

Sherlock glanced over at John in surprise at that. He couldn’t recall hearing John talk about his parents before. That he’d mentioned his father so flippantly and in  _ this _ room made a lot of John’s personality click into place.

_ Of course, abusive father. At the very least he was an angry man. That’s why John stews in his anger for so long until he explodes. He doesn’t want to lash out like his father did. I should have seen that before.  _

When it became apparent that John was done sharing for the moment Ella turned her focus towards Sherlock. Glancing down at her notes she went back to Sherlock’s last statement.

“You said saviour complex.” She tapped her pen against her notebook then said, “What makes you say that.

“Because, John and I will sacrifice anything in order to protect the other from being hurt. However, while our intentions are noble, twice now we’ve royally fucked things up.” Sherlock shrugged, “What else could that be? White Knight syndrome?”

“I think that it’s actually something else. It might be too early to say that with certainty, but going off of what I know about John. I don’t see it as a saviour complex.” Smiling kindly she focused her question on Sherlock in an attempt to give John time to compose himself. “First, let me ask you this. Do either of you protect the other because you get a high off of it, or because fixing the other’s problems is the only thing that makes you feel happy?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head gently then looked over at John who shook his head in agreement.

“Then…” she said, pointedly looking at the rings on their right hands, “Might I suggest that you do it out of love?” Neither of them had explicitly stated their change in relationship. Though it didn’t take a therapist to piece together the meaning behind hand-holding and matching rings.

“Love… yes…” Sherlock mused  as he pondered how their relationship status might have changed their dynamic. He hadn’t thought about it from John’s perspective before. Getting up he folded his hands behind his back and began pacing.

John had proven time and time again over the years that he only withheld information if he truly thought it was best. But could love for one another muddle those decisions?  _ Yes. _ he decided after studying John’s face for a long moment.  _ We have both made poor decisions regarding the other, because of our feelings. _

“We’re engaged, if that matters,” filling Ella in on their relationship in case she hadn’t pieced it together yet . “I don’t want our marriage to start off on the wrong note. Or with either of us harboring anything.”

“Are you letting any emotions fester, Sherlock?” Ella queried after giving the man some time to think.

“Anger…” Sherlock said cautiously while watching John out of the corner of his eye. His fiance stiffened in his chair but there was no outburst. “Self-loathing.”

Sherlock paced over to the window and let out a bitter laugh.

“I’ve always struggled with the last one. But my own self-hatred peaked to a record high these past few days. Since returning home even the simplest of tasks can overwhelm me. I once craved the busy streets of London, there’s so much data so sort through and process in every corner of the city. Yet, upon returning home, what once fed my soul overwhelmed me to such an extreme I didn’t want to leave the flat.”

“Then there’s the self-doubt, which is quite different than self-loathing.” Sherlock threw his head back and let out a frustrated groan at the ceiling. “A tiny corner of my brain told me that John had been right in keeping this from me. That I wasn’t strong enough, or smart enough to help anymore. I grew angry that John didn’t trust me, then angry at myself for believing I wasn’t deserving of that trust.” 

“I can’t name everything I’m feeling… I just sort of feel it. Anger, frustration, doubt, inadequacy… Those are the major offenders. And,” Sherlock turned around to smile softly at John, who still sat with the cup of water pressed between his hands. He was watching Sherlock with eyes that glistened from unshed tears, “love. For the first time in as long as I can remember… I feel love daily.”

_ He makes it all worthwhile.  _

“It sounds like you went through a lot when you were away, Sherlock. Do you have someone to talk with about that period of your life?” Ella’s voice broke through Sherlock’s racing mind.

“I do, we began our sessions last week. I have another one this Thursday.”

“Good, I hope they can help you, Sherlock.  For now, we will focus our sessions on sharing emotions and experiences with each other. We should also find you an outlet, Sherlock. I understand your body has limitations now but is there a physical activity you enjoy?” Pursing her lips Ella frowned in thought.

“I boxed professionally in uni.” Sherlock shrugged with his good shoulder then gave the therapist a half-smile, “but it will be months before I could return to that.”

“Swimming?” John suggested suddenly, and two pairs of eyes turned to look at him. “It would be good for your shoulder, in another week or so that is. It’s therapeutic.”

“Swimming…” Sherlock mused thoughtfully as he considered the option. “That might work. Will you join me?” 

“Once we’re both fit enough, I don’t see why not.” John’s hand had stopped shaking, and though he still looked on the verge of tears there was a grim determination behind those steel-blue eyes. 

“Excellent. When you’re able, I suggest you give that a try.” Ella turned to John, “John, is there anything you’d like to share? Something you’ve been avoiding dealing with?”

“Anger for me as well,” he admitted as he watched Sherlock go back to pacing. Sherlock stopped and looked down at him with something like surprise on his face. “When Mycroft told me Sherlock was alive and explained how he wanted to hire me to bring him home,” he began cautiously, “My first reaction was  _ Fuck, I want to get Sherlock home just so I can kill him myself.  _ I was so mad, I promised myself I’d shout myself hoarse the moment Sherlock was safe. But… when I saw him, saw the state he was in I knew there was no way I could yell at him.”

“But you’re still angry?” Ella prodded gently, making notes on her notepad.

“I’m angry he left me and didn’t let me know he was alive. I could have helped him, could have watched his back.” John’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the hurt in his voice. The tears that he’d refuse to let fall earlier were now streaming down his face.

“Yet you didn’t tell him when your back needed protecting. Why? Out of revenge?” 

“Ehh…” John scrubbed a hand over his face in embarrassment, “Not out of revenge, I listened to his brother, who fed me half-truths about Sherlock’s mental condition. I had made my mind up to tell Sherlock everything the day West got me.”

“That’s true…” Sherlock agreed, moving to sit beside John again so he could take John’s hand in his, “When he left for work, he promised he’d tell me everything that night over dinner. West just got to him first.” 

"I should have gone with my gut instead of trusting Mycroft." John admitted while looking Sherlock in the eye, “I’m sorry.”

"And Sherlock," Ella shifted in her chair so her whole body was facing Sherlock directly, "why didn't you tell John that you were planning on faking your death?"

"There were a couple of factors," Sherlock said, flicking a nervous glance over to John. "The first being I needed the world to think me dead if I wanted my plan to work. I needed to keep John and two others alive. John wears his heart on his sleeve. I desperately wanted to believe that he could keep my secret, but I had no way of telling how clever the men working against me were. The slightest slip-up could have resulted in his death or the deaths of Greg Lestrade and Martha Hudson.”

Sherlock licked his lips and looked to his and John's entwined hands. John's knuckles had gone white and his grip was so strong it nearly hurt. It felt good to be saying all of this out loud. Since their return to London, it had gone unspoken that they would talk as little about the events surrounding Sherlock’s  _ death _ as possible.  However, Sherlock now saw that for this mistake it was.

_ Open and honest. We need that if we want our relationship to be more than a passing fling. I don’t want to hurt John with my words, but what if I hurt him more by never expressing myself? What if all this festers until I’ve extended beyond the point of return.  _

With mounting apprehension, Sherlock continued.

"I wasn't sure if I could do what needed to be done with John by my side. I thought that worrying about his safety would slow me down. He isn’t as quick-witted as I am, or as clever. And I mean no disrespect, John. You are far more clever than I have given you credit for.” Sherlock reached out his other hand circled it around their entwined hands. “You are a doctor, a surgeon, and an army captain. Most men can only claim to be one of those. You are no bumbling fool. I now see that it was my safety I needed to worry about. And I firmly believe that if you had been with me, you would have kept me safe."

“So what I’m hearing is a lot of protectiveness going on from both of you,” she looked over to John who nodded through his tears, “this fits with everything John has shared with me in the past.”

“Also,” John added nervously in a quiet voice, “We’re both blokes, communicating isn’t exactly one of our strongest characteristics.”

_ He hasn’t shouted once. I thought for sure that by now he would have gotten up, stormed around the room, and shouted at me until he’d lost his voice.  _ Sherlock searched John’s eyes, trying to see what his partner was feeling. He saw sadness and hurt in those eyes, but the anger he’d expected was nowhere to be found. 

Ella smiled pleasantly and nodded her head slowly. “Is there anything else either of you would like to share? ” 

“Yeah…” John turned towards Sherlock, glancing from their joined hands back up to Sherlock’s face. He licked his lips nervously then, deciding it was now or never said, “Going back to how I felt when Mycroft broke the news.”  John paused and closed his eyes then took a deep breath. 

_ Here’s the shouting.  _ Sherlock braced himself for the tirade of angry words and accusations that were sure to follow. But instead, John surprised him by speaking in the same tone of voice he used when Mrs. Hudson was ill. Caring, loving, with a hint of firmness around the edges. 

“Not that it wasn’t worth it. It was. But when I saw you there, in that awful place… my heart broke. At that moment I couldn’t imagine shouting at you, but I am still angry. Those two years  without you were the hardest days of my life.”

John licked his lips and placed the mostly empty glass on the table, freeing up both his hands. He turned in the chair and suddenly all four of their hands were entwined into a single ball.

“Part of me wants to forget about that time because you’re home now. So it shouldn’t matter. But when I wake up and your side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, I panic thinking it was all a dream and that you’re not really home with me. You’ve already apologised, and I’ve forgiven you… that’s not why I’m saying this. I just… need you to know that I still struggle and probably will for a while.”

Sherlock forgot that they were discussing  _ feelings _ in front of another person as his whole focus shifted to John. John’s face was twisted with pain and… was that fear? Suddenly he was filled with the overwhelming desire to pull John into an embrace.  _ Are we not in a room specifically designed for moments like this?  _ He thought, standing and pulling John carefully to his feet. 

Gently tugging on John’s hands, still linked with his, he pulled John close to his chest then let go in favor of wrapping both arms around John’s shoulders. He wanted to squeeze, to press John so tightly against him that it would be difficult for either of them to breathe. But at the last moment, he remembered John’s injury and settled on resting his chin against John’s cheek.

“I am sorry, John. I will never leave you again, as long as you don’t leave me. You… god,” Sherlock felt a tear slip down his cheek as he replayed the events since last Thursday, “when you didn’t come home it hit me how hard my absence must have been for you. I didn’t know, I never knew what connecting with another person like this felt like. If you still want to shout, I understand.”

“No, Sherlock,” John sighed and dug his fingers into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, “I don’t want to yell anymore. Punching your brother was enough.” 

Sherlock snort-laughed through a wall of tears he was no longer able to fight. He pressed a kiss to the side of John’s forehead, then suddenly became aware that Ella was still in the room with them. John too, seemingly realized because he cleared his throat and took a step back. 

“We just need to be honest with each other, and stop assuming the other can’t help or handle the situation.” 

“Easier said than done,” Sherlock acknowledges, though he nodded in agreement at John’s statement.

“And that’s what I’m here for,” cut in Ella, just as her watch beeped. “That’s all we have time for today, but I’m proud of both of you for what you’ve shared today. Same time next week? I’ll come up with a few goals for both of you, and a plan to go along with them. Sound alright?”

“I’m free… Sherlock, you?” John looked over at Sherlock questioningly. 

“I’ll make sure I’m free,” Sherlock said as he retrieved both of their coats from the coat rack beside the door. “Thank you, Ella, next Tuesday is fine.” 

***

  
  
“That went well,” John said, linking his arm through Sherlock’s as they waited for a cab. “I have a feeling her whole plan will be ‘you two need to talk more, and assume less’ or something like that.”

“Smart woman, if so.” the corners of Sherlock’s eyes crinkled, and a soft smile lit up his face, “it would solve a lot.”

“Possibly,” John agreed and winced as he tried to flag down a taxi, the motion pulling at his muscles and making his ribs ache. 

Sherlock flagged down the next driver and held the door open for John, then climbed inside after him. As he buckled he looked over at his fiance, his jaw agape and eyes wide.

“What, what’s wrong?” John’s heart jumped into his throat and he instantly began searching for whatever had upset Sherlock.

“Nothing is wrong…” Sherlock said cautiously, “I haven’t had a panic attack since the night before you escaped.”

“Oh!” exclaimed John then they both began grinning at each other, “That’s… that’s good.” 

“It is. It’s a start, at least.” Sherlock took John’s hand in his and began stroking his thumb over his knuckles.  _ See, Sherlock,  _ he told himself as a content feeling settled over him,  _ you just had to prove to yourself that you can return to the lifestyle you love so much. Baby steps. You have to learn to walk before you can run. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, then a short sweet 9th chapter to wrap things up nicely and put a bow on the whole story.


	8. Chapter 8

**Six Months Later**

Like most mornings now, Sherlock’s side of the bed was empty and the sheets had long gone cold. However, the empty space no longer sent chills down John’s spine. Placed carefully on Sherlock’s pillow was a worn-out piece of paper with the words “ _ Just turn the kettle on. xxx -SH _ ” 

The three kisses at the end of the note always made John smile. He'd laughed out loud the first time he'd seen them, and had gotten up to go ask Sherlock if he even knew what they meant. 

_ "Xxx?" John had asked, spotting Sherlock bent over his microscope at the kitchen table, "you do know what they mean, correct?" _

_ John held his breath, waiting for the answer. With Sherlock, there was no telling. Sherlock could have meant the three letters the way adult clubs employed them. Or… _

_ "Kisses, or if we were in America one would sign a note with xoxo for 'hugs and kisses' though the saying should be changed to 'kisses and hugs' as the x comes first." Sherlock rattled off without looking up.  _

_ "Not good?" He asked a moment later, voice tinged with trepidation.  _

_ "No. It's good. Nice, even," John assured him, stopping to press a kiss to the mop of curls on Sherlock's head before going to turn the kettle on.  _

John reached out for the note, like he did every morning, and pressed the well-used piece of paper to his nose. It smelled like Sherlock, like the man himself and not the products he used. The scent was everywhere in their bed, clinging to their pillows and sheets. Inhaling deeply he rolled over and looked at the empty side of the bed. He still preferred the mornings where Sherlock was still curled up, blissfully asleep beside him. But this note had been an easy compromise that granted John peace of mind while giving Sherlock the freedom to work on projects. 

While John had harbored hope that Sherlock’s habit of sleeping six to eight hours a night would last; Sherlock had quickly slipped back into old habits as his physical state continued to improve. Though now John had an easy way to lure Sherlock back into bed, and on those nights he'd be rewarded with a few hours of sleeping next to the person he loved. 

Stretching out under the blankets John yawned and fought the urge to shut his eyes and give in to the sleepy daze that still hung into him.  _ Or,  _ he thought,  _ I could call out for him, entice him to join me for a quick romp before we need to leave for Ella’s office.  _ He grinned at that, letting his mind wander over the events that would transpire, should Sherlock listen to his siren’s call. 

_ First… I’d kiss his neck. _ John had discovered that a well placed kiss to the hollow of Sherlock’s throat left his detective speechless and blinking rapidly. John fondly called it  _ going offline _ , and it was one of John’s favorite things to do.  _ Then, when his brain has shut down, I’d go down on him.  _

John continued to play out the scene in his head. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long before his body was responding to his imagination. He stuck a hand down his pants and began palming himself while imagining Sherlock writhing on top of him. So engrossed with his daydream, he didn’t hear the floorboards by the bathroom door creak. Nor did he hear their bedroom door being toed open.

“Having fun without me?” Sherlock asked coyly from the hall, his voice rich and bubbling over with mirth.

Slightly startled, John’s headshot over towards the door. With a slightly guilty expression, he looked up and drank in the sight of his fiance. The sight that met his eyes quickly aided in helping him forget his embarrassment at being caught mid wank. Sherlock had regained his former exotic appeal, with high cheekbones, alabaster skin, and a lean body that seemed to stretch on for miles. He stood there in his best dressing gown, the blue silk one, with a spatula in one hand and an amused smirk plastered over his face. One of his eyebrows was cocked, displaying his immense pleasure, and the entertainment he was receiving from John’s show. 

“Hopefully not for much longer,” he panted out, licking his lips. His eyes roamed over Sherlock’s body, but as always he ended up staring at Sherlock’s lips. His mind instantly being reminded, in detail, what they were capable of doing to his body. “God, you’re sexy… get in here.” 

“The bacon will burn,” Sherlock laughed, brandishing the spatula in front of him like a sword. 

“Sod the bacon,” John growled and rolled his hips hard against his palm. 

“It was expensive bacon, I’ll just go turn it off.” 

Sherlock disappeared back down the hall, a crisp laugh ringing out as John howled his annoyance. John didn’t have long to stew in sexual frustration though. Within moments Sherlock had returned and was hastily divesting himself of his clothing. 

“Whatever you were imagining,” he whispered as he climbed into bed beside John, “I want you to do it for real. Treat me like your fantasy.”

“You  _ are _ my fantasy,” John rasped, his groan turned into a full-on keening sound when Sherlock’s hand slid between his thighs and cupped his bollocks. “Oh… god.”

“You keep calling me that,” Sherlock’s velvety baritone teased, sending shivers down John’s spine, “Just call me Sherlock. God is too posh, even for me.”

“Cock,” John laughed, then in one quick motion he was on top of Sherlock and his lips were seeking out the spot just below Sherlock’s adam’s apple. 

Sherlock melted into putty in John’s hands as his lips found  _ the _ spot. A sigh ghosted out of Sherlock’s mouth and he lay there slack-jawed as John’s lips teased the sensitive spot. John added a bit of suction to his ministrations which evoked a sharp moan to escape from his partner’s parted lips. 

“I want to come inside you,” John whispered, kissing along Sherlock’s collarbone, I want to feel your orgasm rip through you while I’m buried deep inside you.”

“Please, John,” gasped Sherlock. He dragged his fingertips down John’s back, nails leaving white lines in their wake. 

John was forced to abandon Sherlock’s body just long enough to sit off and ungracefully shimmy out of his pants. He tossed them not caring where they landed. Then, having a stroke of foresight, reached for the lube before returning to his previous activity. 

Something in the back of his mind reminded him that he didn’t have time to sit there and kiss every inch of Sherlock’s pale skin like he desired. Instead, he settled for brushing his lips against every few inches of skin, slowly sinking lower towards Sherlock’s naval. Upon reaching Sherlock’s navel John was forced to change positions. 

He shifted off his side, pausing a moment to take in just how quickly Sherlock had gone from snarky breakfast chef to promiscuous and wanting. 

_ Even his scars are beautiful.  _ As John shifted to his knees, he bent forward and gently kissed the largest scar on Sherlock’s chest. It was from a stockwhip Sherlock had said, it reached from his shoulder blade well past down his sternum. Then, before the moment sobered, or evolved from quick and lustful into slow and tender he sat up.

Settling between Sherlock’s thighs John gave his fiance a cheeky wink. Using his hands without looking, he opened the cap on the lube and squeezed out a liberal glob into his hands. While simultaneously, he bent forward and engulfed just the tip of Sherlock’s cock with his lips. Sherlock bucked and let out a moan, which only grew louder when John began to swirl his tongue around in slow circles. 

Then, while Sherlock was distracted by his mouth (and once the lube had warmed against his fingers) John pressed his slick finger against Sherlock’s hole. As his finger pressed inside Sherlock’s earlier moan matured and developed into a full-blown sigh of delight. 

_ I love how much he enjoys this. _ John thought as he began to tease his fiance.  _ He feels so much, good and bad.  _

_ Through joint sessions with Ella, John had learned just how much Sherlock truly felt and understood behind his stoic facade. He’d been ashamed to learn just how much hadn’t flown under Sherlock’s radar. To such an extent that when they had returned home from that session, John proceeded to apologize for every date he’d paraded under Sherlock’s nose, for the hurtful comments he’d made regarding Sherlock’s own love life (or lack of) and anything else he could think of. He had cried throughout his apology, and the evening had ended with the two of them attempting a soothing bubble bath together. Only to learn that two full-grown men hardly fit in the same tub together. _

“Oohhh right there,” Sherlock’s voice trilled out, bringing John back to the present.

Watching John with keen eyes he saw his partner transition out of a memory. John’s face smoothed as he returned to the moment they were sharing now, his eyes twinkled and something that could only be described as awe overtook his features. He lost his focus, however, when the pad of John’s finger brushed against his prostate sending waves of pleasure streaming over his body.

John chuckled, his voice still rich with sleep. Sherlock shivered at the sound and found himself wishing he’d remained in bed this morning.  _ Who would have thought I’d find the sight of another human shifting from sleep to wakefulness so fascinating. I should formulate a study… perhaps altering the temperature of the room will produce different scenarios. The weather, too, could play… Oh… _

Sherlock’s thoughts trailed off when John added a second finger. His mouth up until then had continued simply teasing the tip of Sherlock's cock. Suddenly his cock was swaddled in a warm wet heat and three fingers were inside him. The fingers moved with the same slow speed as John’s mouth, in and out, up and down. When John’s tongue twisted around his tip, his fingers curled in as they slid across his prostate.

“Oh god, right there,” he pleaded, thrusting his hips forward in hopes of getting his cock deeper into John’s mouth. 

Blessedly, John obliged. If only for two whole minutes. When Sherlock felt as if he might burst he let out a moan and once more asked for more. Instead of listening, however, John pulled off with a wet sounding pop. Sherlock whimpered, then let out a frustrated grunt, bucking his hips to show his displeasure. He had been close, so close. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, about to sternly inform John that his task wasn’t quite finished. But when he saw John, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand, he forgot his complaint.

John had risen to his knees. He had one arm outstretched and his fingers still buried deep within Sherlock, though they went still at the same time he’d sat up. He began stroking himself with his free hand leaving behind a slickness that indicated he’d used lube on himself at some point.  _ Interesting, I missed that.. _ . His eyes were shut, and his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth. John wore an expression of sleepy pleasure and the way the sunlight caught his greying hair gave it back its former golden hue. 

“You’re gorgeous, John.” Sherlock said hungrily as the muscles in John’s biceps rippled, “I could watch you all day.” 

“You do,” John chortled softly, opening his eyes and meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “I catch you staring all the time.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, unable to deny the accusation. Not that he would have wanted to in the first place.  _ So what if I stare? Why wouldn’t I when I’m coexisting quite happily with such a specimen of a man? The sight of you making tea is enough to make me want to lock you away forever and keep you to myself.  _

Sherlock reached for his cock, but when his hand came level with his navel John shot him a look and shook his head.

“No, love. This time let me,” then John’s fingers were sliding out of him. But before Sherlock had time to miss the sensation or feel empty, John was shuffling forward on his knees and lining himself up. 

“Ready?” he asked as he applied just enough pressure so the head of his cock rested against, not inside, his hole. 

Their eyes met and in the briefest of glances, Sherlock  _ saw _ John. He saw John’s hope for their future, the love for him that John showed time and time again, and now, he saw John for who he really was. He was a chameleon. A man who could wear fuzzy jumpers and appear to be harmless. But also a man who if pressed, made bear maulings appear tame compared to his own capabilities.  _ And… _ Sherlock thought as John slid his cock along his crevice,  _ A man who knows how to give pleasure. _

“For you, always.” Sherlock suppressed a shiver as anticipation made gooseflesh swarm across his body. Remembering to relax, he let out a deep sigh and placed one hand on John’s thigh. If he felt any discomfort, all he had to do was squeeze and John would retreat. 

Sherlock’s first, automatic reaction was always to close his eyes and simply  _ feel.  _ But for reasons unknown this morning, he wanted to  _ see. _ With great effort, he kept his eyes open and memorized the expression John made as he gently pushed inside. He’d watched before, of course. He had a whole wing of his mind palace set aside for this moment alone, but this was his favorite part.

The look on John’s face as their two bodies became one, joined by a single point of pleasure, never ceased to amaze Sherlock. John looked years younger, his features relaxed yet somehow also tense with pleasure. Sherlock was certain that if he took a picture in this moment and studied it, he’d find that John’s face split down the middle. One half lax while the other half would be quirked up into a half smile. 

_ I wonder if he’d be against recording this... _ Sherlock wondered vaguely, wiggling his arse just a tad to help John slide in a bit deeper. 

The sleepy expression washed away from John’s features. He pressed his lips closed tightly, then sucked in his bottom lip as he pushed through the barrier of muscles. Then for a split second John’s face twitch, his nostrils flared and he inhaled sharply. Then, with a sigh, his whole body relaxed and he sheathed himself inside Sherlock. 

_ So warm, so tight _ . John threw his head back and groaned as Sherlock constricted his muscles around his cock. Then, not forgetting his promise to take care of Sherlock, he reached out and wrapped a firm hand around Sherlock’s cock. The tip was wet already, anticipation having made him over-excited. John slid his thumb along the slit, pulling the precome down along Sherlock’s shaft, and used it as lube. 

Warmth engulfed Sherlock’s cock as John’s hand wrapped around his length and squeezed. Sherlock uttered a low moan and his whole body shuddered. John’s eyes flashed open with a brilliance of steel-blue, and then with a soft grunt, he was moving. 

Conscious of time, he regretfully skipped over the slow teasing commencement of their fucking. Instead, John opted for a steady pace that was  _ just _ fast enough to send them both roaring to the edge of their orgasms, without actually bringing them there. As he thrust himself inside Sherlock’s heat, he worked his hand over Sherlock’s cock. Keeping his wrist moving at more or less the same speed, he knew neither of them would last long. 

_ Who said sex has to last long to be enjoyable?  _ He thought, looking through his lashes at the man below him.  _ Some of our most memorable romps lasted less than five minutes.  _

Truthfully, John loved shorter acts of congress. He loved the heat, the passion, the hands. Oh god did he love the hands. When Sherlock was brought to the brink of orgasm quickly, but not allowed to cross over; his hands would roam and quest along John’s body. As if by chance the answer to his longing could be found hidden in a freckle or old scar.

His pace was fast and steady, his hand working in tandem with his thrusts. Each pull on Sherlock’s cock was followed by a twist of John’s wrist. With each stroke, his thumb would press against Sherlock’s frenulum, collect more precome then slide along the shaft one more. It wasn’t long before Sherlock was writhing and calling out John’s name. 

“God yes, Sherlock,” John said, adding his voice to the ever-increasing din. He leaned forward, bracing himself with a hand against the mattress for the briefest of moments so he could steal a kiss. Then, straightening up once more he said with a husky voice, “I love the way you watch me… God, I love it, looking over and finding you watching me make tea, or reading one of my novels. And now, how you can’t take your eyes off of me while I’m inside you.” 

“How could I not watch? You’re the most enchanting thing in my life. I’m afraid I’ll blink and miss something spectacular.” 

John’s lips curled into a smile at Sherlock’s words. He understood as he felt the same every moment of every day. Whether Sherlock was tinkering over an experiment or solving a case, he was a sight to behold. One blink and John  _ would _ miss something.

Taking one of Sherlock’s thighs in his free hand he pulled Sherlock’s body closer to his own and rocked forward. In unison, they both let out grunts of approval at the new angle. John slid deeper inside, his cock pressing delightfully along Sherlock’s prostate with each thrust. Unable to maintain his level of focus under such ecstasy Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. With a groan, he threw his head back against the pillow and grabbed at John’s knees. Gripping onto John like an anchor he began to catalog each sensation as it wafted over him. 

_ John’s warmth, his hands, his cock, his thumb. I can feel the intensity of all of it within my very soul.  _

Sherlock imagined he could feel John’s unique fingerprints burning against his skin where they gripped his thigh and cock. The friction caused by John’s movements along his shaft sent tendrils of warmth radiating into his body, each tendril chasing after the pleasure that came before it. 

“John…” Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes again so he could continue to watch his partner, if with less observant eyes.

“What are you feeling, Love?” John purred as their gazes locked. John knew that Sherlock had a tendency to blank out during sex, overwhelmed by the sensations. But he’d learned early on that by asking Sherlock questions, and having him communicate what he was feeling would keep Sherlock alert. 

When Sherlock had suffered through a particularly long day John would let Sherlock slip into his trancelike state. Allowing him to enjoy the moment. But this morning, John wanted to hear his partner, he wanted to hear the moans and the half-formed words. He wanted to hear his own name on Sherlock’s lips as he came apart beneath him.

“Wa.. warmth,” Sherlock’s back arched and he reached one hand up to tease his own nipples. “I can feel myself stretch open for you. It.. feels nice,” he said though he knew his words fell short from describing how he truly felt. 

To Sherlock, it was like the high that came from solving a case. Only better, even better than the high he'd once sought-after through drugs. There was something intoxicating about knowing he was the sole focus of John Watson. That in this moment together they only existed to bring each other pleasure. 

This act, which was sacred to so many, was between them and only them. It was more than just another way to say I love you. It was a promise that they were in this together, thick and thin. Life was no longer a lonely solitary trudge through the wilderness. It was also an unspoken promise that sex was never about positions or defined roles. John had made it a point early on, to prove to Sherlock that he had no desire to slip into stereotypical roles. Between them, they had not defined who would top, or bottom, either physically or emotionally.

Instead, sex was about the moment and the desires that came within that moment. If one of them wanted a cock inside them, then the other would happily oblige. They alternated without discussing  _ whose turn _ it was. It was about what the other wanted. 

_ That's what makes it so wonderful _ , Sherlock thought as John's hands moved along his body.  _ He cares enough about me to make sex about both of our needs. Not just his.  _

Sherlock felt his heart swell as John moved inside him. He watched as the man promised to be his husband began to glisten with sweat. John's eyes were a dark blue, like the ocean before a storm but his smile was warm and gentle. 

His lips parted and a ghost of a sigh escaped through them. Sherlock shuddered and returned the sigh with one of his own. 

“I feel whole like nothing can harm me when we’re like this,” Sherlock said, his voice raw with emotion. He couldn’t help but wonder what life would have been like years ago if he and John had been doing  _ this _ before Moriarty came along. 

“Because nothing can,” John promised gently as his breathing grew heavier.

“John, I’m already close,” Sherlock purred a moment later. He was holding nothing back, and John’s grunt confirmed that he felt the same. “I’m sorry I won’t last long,” he began to apologize but John shushed him.

“Sex doesn’t have to last ages, Love,” John said, echoing his earlier thoughts. “As long as we’ve both enjoyed it, that’s all that matters.” 

Sherlock’s cock twitched hard in John’s grasp. With a sly grin, John sped up his thrusts and let his thumb run along the head of Sherlock’s cock. With a euphoric cry, Sherlock’s whole body tensed. For a moment Sherlock’s whole world was nothing but the sensation of warm blankets, soft touches, and John’s voice praising him with every synonym of  _ fantastic  _ under the sun. The haze lifted just in time for him to watch as John’s own orgasm overcame him. 

John’s face was lit up with an elated grin and a long sigh escaped his lips before his whole body shuddered. With one final thrust inside, he slumped forward until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock’s breast.

“I enjoyed that,” John said around a bubbly laugh, “did you?”

“More than you will ever know.” Sherlock rumbled as he stroked his long fingers down John’s back. 

Somewhere from the other side of the flat Sherlock’s text alert pinged crisply through the silence. John flopped unceremoniously to his back beside Sherlock and cast a gloomy look at the clock. He buried his head in the pillows and pulled a blanket up over his shoulders. Ignoring his mobile Sherlock turned on his side and gently ran his fingers along John’s upper arms.

John exhaled a satisfied grunt, and the rise and fall of his chest indicated that John was close to sleep once again. Not daring to move, lest he break the spell, Sherlock silently willed whoever had texted him, Mycroft no doubt, to go away. 

Sherlock’s mobile let out another noise, however instead of a second text, indicating his brother had a case for them, the sound of his alarm filled the flat. Groaning Sherlock rolled over and glared at the open door as if he could will his mobile to walk itself down the hall through thought alone. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught sight of the clock and let out a curse.

“John, wake up,” he called out, extracting himself from the tangle of blankets and John’s legs. “We’re supposed to be at Ella’s in an hour. And I still have breakfast all over the kitchen.” 

“I don’t wanna go, can we text her and tell her we can’t leave due to amazing sex?” John’s reply was muffled, due to the pillow over his head. Sherlock could imagine the corners of John’s eyes creasing in amusement.

“No, John, I want to go,” Sherlock said around a laugh as he stood up from the bed. When John refused to move he bent down and gently poke at John’s ribs.

“Oi! No tickling after sex, that’s against the rules.” Wide awake now, John yelped and quickly grabbed a pillow and shoved it against his side to protect himself against any further tickling. 

“Tickling is allowed when it prevents us from being late, now get up. As it is we don’t have time for showers.” 

Sherlock gathered his clothing from the floor and stepped into the bathroom to wipe himself down with a wet flannel. Once dressed he checked back in on John, and was pleased to see that John was sitting up in bed, staring at the far wall.

“Get dressed, I’ll finish breakfast,” Sherlock called out after him as he hurried down the hall to turn his alarm off. 

Quickly frying up two eggs and reheating the mostly cooked bacon, he was thankful he hadn’t gone for a more involved breakfast such as pancakes or crepes. When he heard the sink turn on in the bathroom he turned the kettle on and popped bread into the toaster. By the time John shuffled into the kitchen, food was ready. 

“You really did make breakfast,” John said, gaping at the mess spread out over the kitchen. “Wow,” he said simply with a bemused shake of his head. Noticing the kettle was already on he stepped across the room so he could, at the very least, help make the tea.

“Well, three weeks ago you told Ella I never cook.” Sherlock winked, “Now you can’t say that anymore.”

John barked out a laugh then swatted Sherlock’s behind playfully. _I did say that to Ella. Didn't I?_ During one of their more intense sessions where Ella had asked them what remained unbalanced in their relationship. John, sick of cooking and always in charge of the dishes, decided it was then or never to speak up.

“Brat,” he said, reaching up to select his and Sherlock’s favourite mugs from the cupboard, “but fair point.

“Do you think Ella gives out presents for completing all her goals? Like a liver or brain, I could run some experiments on?” Sherlock asked, a bit too wistfully.

“Ahhh… no, sorry Love,” John said with fresh laughter on his tongue. When the kettle was hot, he poured out two mugs and stood there leaning against the worktop watching Sherlock fry up eggs.  _ This is my life now. Flirtatious laughter while we work in harmony around each other. Every day he shows me what a kind person he is inside and how willing he is to work with me on the little things if I show him why it matters. _

“What?” Sherlock asked when he caught John staring.

“Nothing, I just love you.”

“Oh, I love you too, John.”

  
  


***

With October just around the corner, it was no surprise when the morning of their wedding dawned cold and brisk. Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mike had all spent the previous evening trying to convince John and Sherlock to spend the night apart. However, when all attempts had failed, Greg came up with a better plan. 

Awake first, with Sherlock cozied up beside him, John reached for his mobile and swiped through the alerts he’d accumulated during the night. As Sherlock began to stir beside him, he double-checked the weather, pleased to learn the day was still set to warm up after lunchtime. 

“Morning, Sherlock,” stifling a yawn John rolled on top of Sherlock and planted his chin on Sherlock’s chest, “I’d love to stay and wake you up properly, but Greg texted and said he’d pick me up at seven.”

“Mmm… stay, it’s cold out,” Sherlock muttered sleepily, and as if to prove his point he reached for the blankets and pulled them up over both his and John’s head.

“Would you like to get married today, or stay in bed?” John giggled, worming his way up Sherlock’s body so he could kiss around Sherlock’s adam’s apple, then added, “It’ll warm up later, be almost nice out.” 

“Both? Can’t they just pronounce us married here, where we’re warm and comfortable? I don’t see why we have to go someplace special…”

“While your point is valid, and I rather share the sentiment… don’t you finally want to see me in my new suit?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open and a playful grin crept over his face at the mention of the suit. He’d picked it up the day John had gone missing, and since then there hadn’t been an occasion for John to wear it. Or so John claimed.  _ He went out of his way to wear that horrid oatmeal jumper on the days I asked him to wear his suit. _ Sherlock recalled with a frown.

“Fine, but only because I think it will look better on my floor later today.” As much as he did want to see John dressed up, knowing his partner would make any suit look damn good; tonight he’d want nothing more than to see John as naked as the day he was born. After all, wasn’t that the whole point of getting married?

“Horny much?” John laughed and tried to pull away but Sherlock’s strong arms held him tight.

“You’re the one on top of me. You expect my body not to react?”

Sherlock leaned forward, intent on stealing a kiss when Mrs. Hudson’s voice rang through the flat. 

“Sherlock, you two had best be decent! I’m coming in there in five minutes to get you out of bed, young man!”

“Cock block…” Sherlock groaned as he released John.

“Me?” John asked as he pulled himself from the blankets and began to shiver in the cold air.  _ Maybe we can make a bed out by the fire tonight.  _ John thought briefly but dismissed the thought as his knee gave a painful pop.  _ Or on second thought, I might be too old for that. _

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock grumbled as he buried himself deeper into the blankets.

_We’ll just turn the heat up a bit._ John decided as he moved about their room, collecting clothing and his phone charger. Ten minutes later John was caffeinated and ready to go. He’d packed his go back the day before, and through the texts, they’d exchanged the night before, knew that Greg planned on providing breakfast. With nothing else to do, he slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, picked up the travel case that held his suit, and kissed Sherlock goodbye.  
  
“Got everything you need?” Greg asked when John slid into the seat beside him and pulled the car door shut.

“Everything.” John nodded and leaned back to lay his suit in the back seat. He placed the small duffle bag at his feet and craned his neck to look up at the flat windows. Sherlock stood in the window closest to the fireplace. He waved when he spotted John looking up, John waved back then buckled himself in.

“So…” Greg said slyly as he pulled out into the early morning traffic, “You two are finally tying the knot. Took you boys long enough. I almost put a wager down on you coming home from hospital married.”

“Erm…. Yeah, we wanted to work through some stuff first. The whole, ‘I’m not going to tell John I’m not killing myself’ and ‘I don’t need to worry Sherlock about a sniper after me’ thing. Best to work through our issues first, then settle down.” 

“Sherlock told me you two were going to therapy... How was that?” Greg couldn’t keep his curiosity at bay, and John couldn’t blame him. From the outside looking in, the very notion of Sherlock Holmes  _ willingly _ attending therapy, with two different therapists for two very different reasons was astonishing.  _ To say the least. _ John mused over his answer before speaking. “Honestly, he surprised me. He was open and honest with me. I’d say a good eighty percent of the time it was honest to goodness talk. We only had a few rows, and even when we did shout, we never left our sessions angry.” Ella had made sure of that. On the two occasions, their anger hadn’t subsided by the end of their session, she had sent them off each to different time out rooms. Instructing them both not to leave until they had calmed down. 

“Wow, that’s great.” Greg let out a low whistle and shook his head, “He’s really something, John. He’s come a long way from the first time I laid eyes on him.” Greg didn’t add that the first time he’d seen Sherlock, he’d been so hopped up on a cocktail of drugs that it took him two days before he could remember his name. 

“He’s fantastic,” John agreed and looked down at his right hand. This would be the last morning either of them wore their rings on their right hands, the thought made his heart flutter. “So,” he said before the swirl of emotions had time to settle and form a lump in his chest, “what’s the plan? We don’t have to be at Mycroft’s until noon.”

“Well,” Greg chirped with a sly grin, “I assumed that getting you pissed before the ceremony wasn’t something you’d go for. So, I’ve decided to get you so sodding relaxed that you’ll melt into the floor. First on the agenda is breakfast, then you’ve got an hour-long massage, after that, I thought a soak in my hot tub would do us both good. If you’re still hungry we can grab chips on the way to Mycroft’s.”

“Sounds great.” John grinned back at his friend and felt a pang of regret that Sherlock wouldn’t be joining him.  _ Sherlock would love the hot tub, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone. _ Sherlock would be spending the morning with his brother, who almost certainly would not have a fun-filled morning planned.  _ They’ll probably spend the morning trying to figure out  _ _ The Collatz Conjecture. Which I suppose is fun, only to them. _

“If you had let me throw a stag-” Greg began but John waved a hand in the air placatingly. 

“We agreed, no wild parties. We want this as low key as possible. Once Sherlock and I get back from Hawaii you can take us out and get us both drunk.” 

“Promise?” Greg asked greedily, his eyes glinting with mischief. 

“Cross my heart.” John laughed, knowing Greg would have ample fun filming the pair of them drunk.

*** 

Several hours later one incredibly relaxed John Watson stood outside the Knightsbridge house of Mycroft Holmes. While this particular property didn’t have a private back garden, it was within walking distance to Montpelier Square, which Mycroft had arranged would be closed to the other residents for a short period of time that afternoon. 

“Fancy,” Greg commented, looking up at the row of expensive flats.

“Is it?” John queried, “It looks like Baker Street, just… white.” Lifting a hand to his forehead to filter out the sun John looked the building up and down. It was a few stories higher than Baker Street, and there wasn’t a cafe crowding the downstairs portion, but all in all, he couldn't see what the fuss was all about. 

The only real difference to him was the cars. The cars parked along the road were all newer models. There was no doubt the whole block exuded the air of the rich and famous. John, however, couldn’t be arsed to care. 

“Is this the garden?” Greg, who had spun around, pointed to a small iron gate with a sign that read  _ Private Gardens Residents Only _

“Must be,” Nodding John walked to the gate and peered around the hedges lining the park. “I see them,” he called, opening the gate and stepping inside.

There in the center of the large patch of grass was a small white canopy. The afternoon sun had banished the chill, and not wanting to burn Sherlock stood under the shade the canopy provided.  _ Could have just worn sunblock _ , John thought fondly, noticing that everyone else stood basking in what warmth the sun had to offer. Looking back at Sherlock, he clucked his tongue then let out a low whistle.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock looked spectacular, the steel-grey suit he’d had made specifically for this day fit him like a glove. Standing in the shadows of the canopy, the fabric appeared a shade darker, which somehow accentuated his dark curls and made the green accents on his suit pop with flashes of bright color as he moved about. 

“He wanted to match,” John said, stopping in his tracts and just staring at his partner. “I thought it was silly but damn…”

“Damn indeed.” Greg laughed, slapping John on the shoulder. “I’ll grab pictures and let the yard play _ who wore it better _ .”

“You do that, but I want fifty quid on Sherlock winning,” John said absently, only half hearing Greg’s laughter. 

“You’re not half bad yourself, John.” Greg winked and looked John over.

Like Sherlock, he was wearing a steel-grey suit. Sherlock had gone for a three-piece suit, while John had managed to weasel his way out of wearing a waistcoat. They had matching emerald green ties, and green roses clipped to their lapels. Altogether, John felt far too fancy for a simple back garden wedding. But it had made Sherlock happy, which in turn made him happy. 

“Yeah, but look at him… he has legs for days,” John licked his lips and imagined ripping the suit off of Sherlock.  _ Later, down boy… _ he silently rebuked himself, reminding himself to keep his libido in check until they were back home. _ Don’t need your wedding pictures ruined by unwanted erections now, do we? _

"So why Hawaii?" Greg asked after John managed to collect his wits and they began moving along the path towards the rest of their party. 

"Erm, that was my choice," John said with a shrug. "I've always wanted to go, but could never find the time or money."

"So you're making Mycroft pay for it. Brilliant." Greg laughed approvingly and clapped John on the shoulder, "Sherlock didn't object?"

"Honestly he had no opinion. He didn't care if we stayed home, went north for a few days, or spent a week in some jungle. So, I made the executive decision." 

That was only partially a lie. Bored one day, Sherlock had taken to browsing the internet, and had come across a readers digest article about “19 of the Strangest Unsolved Mysteries of All Time.” Enthusiastically, he’d shown it to John, babbling about how it would make for an interesting honeymoon. However, as most of the stories took place in Russian mountains or deep ocean, John wasn’t convinced. 

He’d told Sherlock to pick three, and they would make a point to holiday nearby at some point in the future. Accepting the compromise with good graces, Sherlock then began to research more strange phenomenons, and soon had one wall of the flat taken up with papers pinned into the wallpaper. 

"Yeah, he never struck me as someone who cared about a holiday destination." Greg’s voice chased John’s thoughts away, but instead of contradicting Greg, he simply shrugged as if to say  _ yeah, maybe. _

Fast approaching the canopy John was now able to hear bits of conversation as it drifted over the open space. He watched Sherlock, who was having an animated conversation with his mother. Sherlock was waving his arms about and making his mother laugh so hard she was clutching her sides. Less than ten words reached John’s ears, but it was enough for him to speed up from a leisurely walk to a near sprint.

"Oh god," John blanched, then his face turned beet red. "he's telling her about the sex swing…" he called over his shoulder after leaving a very confused Greg in the dust.

“That’s enough of that, Sherlock…” John said sharply as he approached, he put a little bit of his army command tone into his voice, hoping it would silence Sherlock. His husband to be, however, opened his mouth, as if to continue the story, unperturbed by John’s arrival. Knowing there were only two ways to make Sherlock stop (and duct taping the mouth of your partner on your wedding day was frowned upon in most social circles) John acted the only other way he could. Planting his feet firmly apart he wrapped his left hand around Sherlock’s waist and braced his other against Sherlock’s back. Carefully he bent forward and lowered Sherlock into a low dip.

Sherlock was still attempting to finish his story, so upping his antics one notch further John pressed their lips together. Only then did Sherlock’s body go lax in his arms, and a soft hum vibrated against John’s lips as they kissed. Sherlock’s hands came up to grasp John’s biceps. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, but they were quickly reminded of their surroundings when Mycroft cleared his throat.

John pulled Sherlock back to a standing position amongst the sound of squeals and clapping. Mummy Holmes held a hand over her mouth, only partially obscuring her broad smile while Sherlock’s father seemingly had been the one to start the slow clap. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock and gave him a look.

_ I dare you to continue that story, Sherlock.  _ It said.  _ Do it, and I swear next time I’ll drop you. _

Sherlock snorted but thankfully went about straightening his suit rather than finish the story. 

“As everyone is here,” Mycroft announced, judging by the look on his face he was as relieved as John was at the distraction, “might we proceed. The sun is bothersome.”

“I have sunblock in my bag.”

“Hardly the point, Miss Hooper, but thank you.” Mycroft waved a hand at Molly, who came to stand next to Greg. She was wearing a stunning yellow sundress, and a while shall to ward off the sligh chill that still lingered. Greg, rightly so, couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. John noticed with satisfaction a flash of gold and light glinting off a diamond, as Greg and Molly clasped hands. 

The wedding party was small. Consisting of Molly, Greg, Mycroft, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, and the Holmes’ family clergyman. While small, it was still far larger than John had initially wanted. He’d wanted to drag Sherlock down to the local registrar's office then whisk him away for some much needed time off. But once Mummy had gotten wind of the wedding, plans had evolved, Mycroft had gotten involved then it was out of their hands. 

_ Shame Harry couldn’t be here… but I hope rehab sticks this time. _ John thought, looking around at their guests. Sherlock, seeing the pained look flash across John’s face, squeezed his elbow gently.

John and Sherlock were made to stand a few feet apart under the canopy while the rest of the party lined up in a semicircle around them. Their vows were short, both promising in varying manners, to protect and nurture. When the vicar instructed them to remove their rings from the right hand and place them on the corresponding finger of the left hand, John’s vision narrowed and all he could see was Sherlock.

Standing there in his well-fitting suit, the sun behind him casting a radiant glow over his shoulders and hair, John felt his breath catch as he slid the silver band from Sherlock’s right hand. Holding the ring between his thumb and index finger, he gently took the fingers of Sherlock’s left hand in his. Then, biting his lip, he watched as he slid the band up over Sherlock’s knuckles and it nestled into place.

_ Simply a symbolic act, yet… It makes me feel untouchable. As if time and space itself couldn’t ever pull us apart again. _ John thought, watching as Sherlock mimicked the process with his own ring. Lost deep in thought, he only  _ just _ heard the cleric pronounce them married. He came to his senses just in time to not be thrown completely off balance as Sherlock returned his earlier favor, and dipped him low to the ground. John had to kick out a leg to maintain his balance. Any worry over being dropped was erased when Sherlock’s tongue begged entrance to his mouth. Pushing his head up, he gave the kiss his all until he was quite breathless.

“Yes, yes. You may now kiss. Again,” the vicar said, slightly flustered but smiling at the show of affection. 

“Thank you, but I don’t need permission to kiss this man,” Sherlock said as he helped a dazed John to his feet.

“So,” Mummy said, dabbing a corner of her handkerchief to her watering eyes, “did you boys settle on a name?”

“We’re keeping our surnames,” John said with a fond smile.

“Holmes and Watson, they just go together.” Sherlock agreed.

“Like salt and pepper,” added John.

“Likes eggs and ham?” Molly giggled as she leaned her head on Greg’s shoulder.

“Like murder and Sherlock?” Greg interjected, earning himself a scowl from John and an exciting flash of eyes from Sherlock. 

“While I’m quite certain this could go on for hours,” Mycroft twirled his umbrella in the grass, “if we could all move to my flat, we have a light spot of refreshments set up before we all part ways.

“When are you boys off to your honeymoon?” Molly queried later over a plate full of an array of finger sandwiches. 

“Tomorrow, late morning. They’re ten hours behind us, so we’ll actually arrive there today.” John answered for them both, which suited Sherlock just fine.

“Plan on seeing anything while you’re there, or just winging it?” Molly continued to inquire, out of polite interest, and a desire to keep the conversation flowing. 

“Erm, we have a few things planned, but mostly we just want to relax on a beach somewhere,” John said, laughing as Sherlock scoffed.

“Yes, because sand between one’s arse cheeks just  _ screams _ relaxing to me.” Sherlock pulled a face, which made John, Molly, and Greg laugh.

“Fine, I want to relax on a beach, while Sherlock will probably be off terrorizing the local police force. Either way, as long as he doesn’t get arrested for interfering with a crime scene, I’ll call the holiday a success.” 

“Not sure I want to know what you’ve been doing on the beach to get sand up your arse, Sherlock,” Greg grinned and gave Sherlock’s shoulder a good-natured jab with his finger. 

The room, and the people within it, swirled and the noise seemed to echo off the walls. It amazed Sherlock how much noise nine people could make. While his brother’s flat was by no means small, the noise seemed to make the space cave in on him. Retreating to a loveseat on the far side of the room, he fiddled with his teacup and focused on his breathing.

“Alright,” John asked gently, making the sofa creak as he sat down beside Sherlock.

“Fine, just… loud,” Sherlock answered quietly, forcing a smile on his face so their guests wouldn’t know he was struggling. He was doing better, in comparison to how he was when John had first brought him home. However, for some reason, the cackles of laughter that bounced between his mother and Mrs. Huson were suffocating. His eardrums felt as if they might burst, his head pounded, and suddenly he felt too hot.

“We could nip out, head home. Mycroft just said he’d send Mrs. Hudson off to her sisters in one of his cars. So… there’s nothing stopping us from ducking out.”

“Leave our own wedding party?” Sherlock asked, raising one eyebrow in mocked horror.

“Why not, it's  _ our _ party. Maybe I’m just sick of seeing you in that suit.” John winked, “we can tell them we need to finish packing. Or something about the time change.”

Before they had time to formulate their escape plan, Greg walked up to the couple and nodded covertly towards the door. Waving his phone in the air, as if to show off a text or picture, he said loud enough for the whole room to hear, “Just got word, we have a case. Can you spare an hour to help?”

Relief washed over Sherlock’s face as he stood up and nodded briskly towards the DCI. Without preamble he brushed past his brother, calling out over his shoulder, “John, are you coming?” 

“What about Molly,” John asked once they were outside the flat and heading for Greg’s car.

“Oh, this was her idea,” Greg replied cheekily, taking his keys out of his pocket and remotely unlocking the doors, “She said she’d keep Mrs. Hudson company for a little while, then meet me back at home.” 

“It’s going well then, you and Molly,” John asked, opting for the backseat so Sherlock would have more room for his longer legs in the front seat. 

“Really well,” Greg grinned, then a look of complete mischief overtook his features. “I have half a mind to turn on the blues and twos, but that might get us all into trouble.” 

Despite not having the aid of sirens and flashing lights, Greg got them back to Baker Street in record time. He wished them both a happy trip, then with a cheery wave left them to their own devices.    
  
“Come on, Husband,” John said, taking Sherlock by the hand and pulling him towards the door. “I want to see how good that suit looks on our floor.”

Chuckling, and feeling much more at ease now that he was home, Sherlock reached up and loosened his tie. Then with eager steps, followed John to their bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANY comments regarding YOUR interpretation of the kink or MY story are completely unwanted, and I ask you do not to post them. Keep your comments respectful, and I will respect you. 
> 
> If you simply wish to discuss the story, say hi, or mention your favorite part please leave me a comment. Comments are like oxygen for writers.
> 
> Also, I am Sherlock, and Sherlock is me. I DO NOT find beaches relaxing... Sand... in places even the sun shouldn't be. *Shudders*


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock looked over at the five-year-old sitting on his sofa. His blond hair was combed back and held in place with gel. His blue eyes flashing angrily around the room, but his jaw was stubbornly set, refusing to put words to his complaint. Tiny hands tugged at his navy blue suit jacket, and when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking he reached down and began to untie the laces to his dress shoes.

“Billy, what did I  _ just _ tell you?”

“To keep the shoes on.” Billy dropped the end of the lace with an exasperated sigh. He caught Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror above the mantle and rolled his eyes. “Why.”

“Because your Da will kill me if I allow you to out of those clothes.” Sherlock returned to his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his tie for the seventh time.  _ I hate ties, maybe I should let his Da kill me. Would save us all an endless amount of needless suffering. _

“Da wouldn’t kill you…” Billy protested, his hand going to his own tie, his a clip-on version. Before he had a chance to tug it free of his collar someone cleared their throat, and both child and detective looked up to see John walk in from the kitchen. He was dressed in a similar fashion, his suit gray where Sherlock’s was black. 

“I wouldn’t  _ kill _ him, but I’d make him sleep on the sofa.” John stepped up to Sherlock, motioned for him to face him, and with a patient smile fixed Sherlock’s tie. “Auntie Molly wants us to look our best on her wedding day. I don’t love this suit either, but it’ll make her happy.” 

“Da? Will Auntie have matching rings like you and Papa do?” 

“Sort of,” John held out his left hand and looked at the silver band that had found its home there five years ago. “Women typically get a diamond on their rings, because it’s fancy.”

“Will she have kids? Will I have someone to play with?” 

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat as Billy slid off the sofa. He was an inquisitive child, as he assumed all were. But Billy never ceased to come up with a list of questions that demanded answers. He skipped over the carpet and came to stand beside his two parents. His head just barely came up to Sherlock’s waist and when he reached up to take Sherlock’s left hand to inspect the ring closer, he marveled at how a child so small could ask so many questions in the span of thirty seconds. 

“Remind me to send a flower basket to my mother, John. I must have been insufferable.” 

“You still are, love.” Laughing John pulled Billy up into his arms and the three of them inspected their reflections in the mirror.

“We all look rather dashing. Keep you tie on until we take a photo at the reception, then after that, you can run around in your pants for all I care.” John kissed the side of Billy’s temple then placed him back on the ground before his traitorous shoulder had a chance to protest his son’s weight.

“I’ll get the car. You two,” John said while looking at his son and husband, “remain dressed. Please?”

Soon everyone was buckled in, and they were well on their way to the country retreat Molly had booked. As they transitioned from city to landscape Billy looked up from the picture book he’d been reading and asked the question his parents had known would come. They’d devised a child-safe version of the story, to tell him now. Then when he was older they would tell him the full truth about how his mother had been murdered by her husband just before he shot himself, leaving their toddler alone in their flat.

“Ellie from my class said two men can’t have babies. And Mrs. Harrison said she was right. My book shows a mommy and a daddy, and their baby. So, how did you have me?”

“Well, we didn’t really,” John said and was thankful he’d let Sherlock drive. He turned around in his chair and grinned back at their five-year-old. “We sort of found you. Daddy is pretty smart, and you know how we sometimes help people?” 

Billy nodded thoughtfully and looked up from his book. “They come over and tell Daddy why they’re sad. He helps them.”

“Sort of, yeah,” in five-year-old logic, that was a fairly accurate assessment of Sherlock’s profession, “Well, we helped out someone once, and we just happened to find you. It was an accident, really. We needed Uncle Greg’s help, so we went to visit him at work. We found him beside himself in his office, trying to comfort a crying toddler, you. Your mum, the lady who carried you in her belly and gave birth to you couldn’t take care of you anymore, and Uncle Greg was trying to figure out if you had anyone else to watch you.”

“So you watched me?” Billy asked, trying to keep up.

John smiled at the memory. William had just barely been three then. It had been a few short months since they’d returned from their honeymoon. Neither of them had really discussed children or the possibility of adding a child to their dynamic. But when Sherlock met William, they both knew in an instant their family wasn’t complete. 

“Daddy did. He got down on his knees and blew a raspberry in your face. You stopped crying and started watching him. Daddy continued to make silly faces at you once you were laughing and a bit happier. We couldn’t stay and play with you that day, ‘cause Daddy had to go help someone else. But when we were done, he’d called up Uncle Greg and asked about you.”

“And I came home to live with you then?” Billy’s face scrunched up as if trying to remember that day.

_ Maybe he can still remember it. He just doesn’t know the significance of that moment.  _

“Not right away, we had to prove to a bunch of people that we would make good parents, and we had to make sure no one else wanted you more than we did. But yeah, you came to stay with us when you were three years old. You might even be able to remember your mum, a little,” John said, though he honestly wasn’t quite sure.  _ Did we cover the lifespan of childhood memories in seminar? We must have… _

“Did…. you give me my name, or did my mum?” 

“Your mum, we think. William is your full name, as you know right well. I shout it often enough when you’re in trouble. But Daddy started calling you Billy the day you came to live with us, and it kind of stuck.” 

“Okay,” Billy said with a boyish grin on his face. Then, seemingly out of questions for the moment, returned to his book and began sounding out words as Sherlock turned onto a narrow lane.

Molly and Greg’s wedding ended up being perfect, borderline magical. After the ceremony, they stepped outside the small church, and all sat under a large tent set up in the field outback. Molly, it turned out, came from a large family with lots of nieces and nephews who were around William’s age. Left in the dust by their son, who was off running through another field with ten other children, John and Sherlock sat side by side and watched with fond smiles on their faces.

“He kept his tie on longer than I calculated,” Sherlock said, folding the tiny tie and slipping it into his pocket.

“So did you.” John acknowledged, nodding to the tail end of Sherlock’s tie where it was poking out of the same pocket.

“Dreadful things,” Sherlock rolled his eyes then put on a smile to be polite, as he noticed the bride and groom making their way over to their table.

“Hi guys,” Greg said jovially. He looked happy to Sherlock, happier than he could recall ever seeing him. He had one hand wrapped around Molly’s waist and a lopsided grin garnished his face. “He looks like he’s having fun,” he commented, following John’s gaze to the children. 

“Despite his best efforts.” John laughed, standing up to shake Greg’s hand and give Molly a kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful, Molly.”

“Thank you, but I feel like a cow.” She rubbed her belly and winked, making both John and Sherlock’s eyes shoot up.

“Oh? Congratulations?” John asked carefully. Though for all his tact, he was married to non-other than Sherlock Holmes who quickly calculated the due date. 

“Billy was just asking if you’d have children, when can we tell him,” Sherlock asked after everyone had finished laughing at his calculations. 

“Not for a while yet, we haven’t had our first scan yet. We wanted to wait until we know the baby is healthy before making it official.” Greg cast Sherlock a stern look, then his features softened

“Not to sound crass,” John said a moment later, chewing on his lip and wondering if he were overstepping. Curiosity, however, got the best of him, “but that was a rather long engagement.”

“Well, I was finishing up my doctorate, and Greg, well, I’ll let him tell you,” Molly said with a proud twinkle in her eyes.

Greg sighed as if put out by the request, but his grin that followed spoke of just how truly excited he was. “I erm, got promoted to Sargent.” He shrugged, acting as if it weren't a big deal. Molly took his forearm in both of hers and gave his arm an excited jiggle. 

“Well earned too, I might add.” She said sweetly, standing on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Wow, Greg, congrats.” John gushed, reaching out and taking Greg’s hand once more. Sherlock muttered something that sounded similar to  _ That’s fine, I guess,  _ but reached out and gave Greg an awkward pat on the arm. 

That night as John drove his tired family home, he couldn’t help but feel full. Not from the food or drink he’d consumed, but because of how well he and his friends were doing. For a group of people who’d deal with so much: loss, workplace grief, and other personal struggles; everyone appeared to have come out on top.

As they drove under a streetlight, John glanced up at the mirror and caught a glimpse of his son, fast asleep, in his booster seat. His curls were matted, and John knew he’d be picking twigs out in the morning after the children had discovered a hill to summersault down. Bringing his focus back to the road, he listened to the soft snores drift through the car.

_ So much good can come out of so much shit. _ He thought as a fond smile tugged at his lips. If he’d been asked five years ago, where he saw himself now, this would not have been his answer. Driving home from a beautiful wedding after seeing two dear friends find happiness through each other. 

_ No, I wouldn’t have said ‘happily married, and a father to boot.’ I would have said ‘existing’ or something else as utterly depressing.  _

_ So, Watson. Where will you be in five more years? _ He asked himself. 

_ Happily married, flustered with an almost pre-teen who acts far too much like his other father. Perhaps… one more child? _

The thought nearly made him step on the breaks. He shook his head, flabbergasted by the thought, then smiled broadly.

“What?” came Sherlock’s sleepy query.

“Nothing… just thinking,” John replied as he reached out a hand briefly to squeeze Sherlock’s knee. 

“‘Bout what?” Sherlock pressed, having seen the look that had passed over John’s face.

“Just… where we’ll be in five years. And I thought,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low as not to wake Billy. “Why not one more kid?”

“Oh,” Sherlock replied, his voice hardly a whisper. “One more,” he agreed after a while and thought,  _ A girl this time. Billy would be a good big brother, and she can play with Molly’s baby.  _

“One more.” John echoed softly. Later, when asked, John would say he could feel the very moment his heart expanded, making room for the final member of the Watson-Holmes family. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANY comments regarding YOUR interpretation of the kink or MY story are completely unwanted, and I ask you do not to post them. Keep your comments respectful, and I will respect you. 
> 
> If you simply wish to discuss the story, say hi, or mention your favorite part please leave me a comment. Comments are like oxygen for writers.
> 
> **************************************
> 
> Here we are, at the end of the story. THANK YOU so much to BRNZ for alllll her hard work. I seriously couldn't have done this without her.
> 
> The books are coming to lulu soon. I just need to figure out how to make the PDFs correctly to upload to the site. BeautifulFIction (OMG FANGIRL TIME) has agreed to give me a few pointers... again. OMG FANGIRL TIME
> 
> If you would like to stay connected for updates regarding the books, or just to chat find me here  
> https://tindomerelhloni-official.tumblr.com/  
> https://www.facebook.com/groups/johnlocked  
> https://twitter.com/Lavelerina (Though I only use twitter for Pokemon Go news, but the option is still there)  
> https://ko-fi.com/tindomerelhloni
> 
> Thank you to each and every one of you who commented and gave me kudos. You kept me going and helped make this story happen. As Sherlock would say OXOX


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